77* Poem by Naveed Khalid

(A Tribute To Hamnet Shakespeare)

Long forgotten lines of my pulse through
unnerved blood in vein,
many a tale is weaved of the world;
around my head that mute song in time's cruel hand,
so old and withered his stressed out beat in dull rhyme,
oft by what you think goes blind through rose-coloured glasses,
of what to my mind still upon the page is printed, printed
before the pen hath writ thrice with holy dread:
the fate of those stars in my account,
of whom, they say, hath fled in old decrepit tongue,
I'll write them against the wall on high with pen-pricked angels,
beside the oak, the majestic sun at my door
opes a garden in the backyard of my garden where bluebells hang
by the windowsill of an old house; such darling insights
break the first light at dawn thy myrtle crown,
is robbed of me my rose-bed under the cow's shed,
so many scattered flowers are spread in vain,
pricked with a furr coat in the cellar-barn, santa's mini skirt
of a dragon skin at clover-beach unto my shipwrecked dreams;
that fair youth in whose tress of golden hair
I still behold thy iron car at matilda's farm.

(C) Naveed Khalid

Copy Rights (C) 2013.
All Rights Reserved.

Date Created: Tuesday, December 03,2013 6: 56: 31 PM

*Rewritten on Thursday 23, October,2025.23: 56 pm