Of such frivolities to speak I have no wits,
Nor my body aligns to a mast-shaft at north;
every fawning bay at my door to drown an eye, unused to flow,
through looks more bright than by what I write,
of thy unattended presence o'er the wall on high;
that to my well contented day be still
of another rent at midnight lease in waking hour:
A brain-drain of all in the debris of ruined ashes,
the quill at thy brow can prick no more,
the thought that arise in a fabric of day-dreams,
a death-like trance to my living memory
of my mother's departed song in sweet-scented letters.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2014.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Sunday, October 19,2014 6: 01: 42 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem