Poem: Come by Azka

Shan’t the hapless quarrel of blood ebb and dye away the mess?

And shan’t the hap dawn rest?

Come

For hatred shall grow into the sun

And its’ spring flowers shall finesse

Now that I have listened with close ears

The ivy of mirth has purred into my tears

Come

For its’ elfin enchantment had done its deed and more

So, wait under the moonlight, and the rose shall stand with grace

And under the moon-lit night, the rose shall waltz with blood red lace

Alas, ’tis the wondrous moon of Lahore

Come