By JH Sayyar
My heart, a well where sorrow takes its rest,
Each beat a knell beneath the cloaks of grief,
No morning sun can warm my aching breast,
Nor kindly words afford my poor soul relief.
Where sweet love did sing in golden tones,
Now silence walks, a ghost through empty halls,
And every joy is carved in round brittle stones,
That crumbles with the weight of memory's calls.
Yet still it beats, though hope has fled its shore,
And bleeds in silence through the falling years;
It bears the woes’ burden that it cannot store,
An empty vessel brimming with unspoken tears
My mournful eye, though wounded deep, endure
For sorrow is the proof that my love was pure!!
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