Not least by what you think of his same old facade,
That by writing more I'll but lose sight of thee;
When on Sunday morning I could see you from the gallery,
All wrapped in love of her golden thread of thought,
I moved forth my fingers in red-woven hair knots,
Leaves me wondering what to my mind I still am looking,
To days that are dead and nights of pouring shadows!
Of laurel-wreath thy myrtle crown, slipped away from my timid hands,
The child's skull of fossil records deep in the sand dunes
Hath brought me to this oasis of titanic visions afar,
Where e'ery fig leaf by early stardust in the vineyard;
And tears that flow with each shining star in waste of time,
My feet half-sunk where the boat lost her oars to the sea,
That little abstract fills the page on lone bark of a tree.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2014.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Monday, May 05,2014 3: 11: 00 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem