Ode

My angel, you who speak to me through lilac veils
before the moon turns pale beside its downy lair,
and sow the seeds of sipid calm in raging gales
to make those dusky howls assume a sweeter air,

while you breathe in my ear some softly whorled surmise
of life afloat inside a tulip’s speckled veins,
a rippling vision of your form swims in my eyes
as if my lips would kiss your palms perfumed with rain —

sweet guide of restful sleep, still sound of prescient calls,
your morphing prisms sprinkle dreams around my walls!


Taimur Khan

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