My Love of seven winters have thy November,
And each day of a hundred shadows by thy grave,
I, too, hath stood and wept, divided by night;
This far-fetched sky of woeful dream in thy abode,
Eternity! marked by titanic visions of the world,
Where'er unhindered scope of such beauty abounds,
The sun 'gainst all odds, moves afoot to eternal bliss!
Alongwith pen-pricked angels to a vanished sight,
For what I see not, all-encompassed by thine eye,
That boat upon the harbinger, still decked ashore;
Roves well ahead of time to fixed destination,
'Til humble ode at thy feet would ne'er stirr the mind,
What oft in season's breathless rhyme but fades away,
Away! away! from golden banks of silken-satin.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2014.
All Rights Reserved.
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