Poem: Maestro, Please!

Nothing that by love of old-formed memory

To eyes so blind my reckoning days more bright

Than that forfeited dark if from a bowl of stars you drink,

This world of what in thy presence most abounds

Against all odds, all vicissitudes of the sky, my mind,

Of snow-capped myrtle at Minerva's golden brow:

E'ery flower upon a barren heath of ages that are dead,

Alas, too soon shall wither in my bed of crimson joy;

Of worn-out time her enchanting slogans of disparity,

Oft goes unchecked my the west wind in autumn leaf,

Along pen-pricked angels of thy most high deserts,

Of doomed youth her yonder looks to eternal bliss in waking hour,

Else in simple fold my vain endeavour to dreary night's cold repose,

Still abides by thee alone to that day of unaltered eye.

[Naveed Khalid]