The Wounded Breast

From lover’s wounded breast the plague is born,

As when the cherished fragrance meets us not,

There be a river of lament, from eve to morn

Runs wild, till reason’s lamp burns cold and fraught.

Love’s early beam, is a beam in beginning, 

Than unfolds to a thousand longings 

Some ripens into fruit of blossoming,

But most like clouds in hot sky dying, 

And if avarice a brittle twig at first it seems—

Grows soon like a thicket choked with seed;

Upon harvesting to greedy one it heals, 

The other remains in melancholy with lips sealed 

Thus passion’s ship leaves the mystic sea,

Or sinks in storms before the coast can be.

---Affaq 

#TheWoundedBreast 

#Foreversonnets 

#PoetAffaq