No, sir! I'll not visit you places far-off
beyond the sunrise to Montana, Missouri,
bag-pies of blue-stockings, heaven-ward bent;
tightly knit to my thought her apparels in spring,
of halcyon-days that to my mind still,
a horse-on-saddle at his knee touched the ground,
curtailed behind the corner of that street,
a man-in-the-moon, a mistletoe on his back,
hath laid a path to star-lit night of my shipwrecked dreams
to e'er melting snow that crow's quill of feathered mast-shaft at north,
ere in the grey evening by the sweat of thy brow,
this world beside, that I still play a hunch for the parade.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2015.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Wednesday, August 05,2015 7: 04: 10 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem