Crippled Countenance Poem by Naveed Khalid

While withered leaves from dust-covered page
of thy book in autumn;
shows not half thy part in the late evening,
the west wind blows the trumpet horn
of thy most high deserts in rosemary garden,
this world has but little scope to show thy pride,
heaven-ward bent thy iron car at matilda's farm!
much stifled in grim stance of unrest at my door:
that age-old tree beside thatch eves is run,
of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown
against eclipsed doom to bloody tyrant time,
of woe-begone days my shipwrecked dreams,
fade away in colours of my thought her novice feeling,
ah, but to fill my heart with love such darling insights.
her plucked parsley at Minerva's golden brow,
arise, arise above the mundane of departed looks,
no dark can e'er illumine in haystack of woods
e'ery flower upon a barren heath in my bed of crimson joy,
of what I write ere thine holy eyen, sweet maid.

(C) Naveed Khalid

Copy Rights (C) 2016.
All Rights Reserved.


Date Created: Friday, February 05,2016 3: 06: 41 PM
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