BONFIRE SONG

The bonny month of June is crowned

With the sweet scarlet rose;

Each grove and meadow all around

With lovely pleasure flows.

And I walked out to yonder green One evening so fair,

All where the fair maids might be seen Playing at the bonfire.

Hail! Lovely nymphs, be not too coy,

But freely yield your charms ;

Let love inspire with mirth and joy

In Cupid's lovely arms.

Bright Luna spread her light around

The gallants for to cheer,

As they lay sporting on the ground

At the fair June bonfire.

All on the pleasant, dewy mead

They shared each other's charms. Till Phoebus' beams began to spread,

And coming day alarms.

Whilst larks and linnets sing so sweet

To cheer each lovely swain,

Let each prove true unto their love,

And so farewell the plain.

My favourite lass - How pretty those yellow summers are
I'm glad you broke your glasses and have no vision to feed the bad fad,

to snack dinner while watching masses on the television display.

I'm pleased you find comfort in books with porn fairies and love dismay

and your cute notepad with glowing stickers and random scribbles.

I want to seal your ears and sight so that you can have a life;

just yours and mine, a carrying construct with the lack of tale

of the wither and survive, from those planting seeds to fields from debris,

sunflowers dancing in the wind. Better than anyone, my little favourite lass,

you know how pretty those yellow summers are. I just want you to rest

in my arms, a timeless 'it's alright', where outside won't surpass

Our peculiar sister place at the usual tabletop with black coffee as the world stops.
 THE FATHER'S TREASURE
As round their dying father's bed

His sons attend, the peasant said:

"Children, deep hid from prying eyes,

À treasure in my vineyard lies;

When you have laid me in the grave,

Dig, search–and your reward you’ll have."

"Father,” cries one, "but where's the spot ?"

–He sighs ! he sinks ! but answers not.

The tedious burial service o'er,

Home hie his sons, and straight explore

Each corner of the vineyard round;

Dig up, beat, break, and sift the ground;

Yet, though to search so well inclined,

Nor gold nor treasure could they find;

But when the autumn next drew near,

A double vintage crowned the year.

"Now," quoth the peasant's wisest son,

"Our father's legacy is known,

In yon rich purple grapes 'tis seen,

Which, but for digging, ne'er had been

"Then let us all reflect with pleasure,

That labor is the source of treasure.”

END OF ENTRY
 Abdul Nafay Shaikh

Flat # 7, Building 103, Street 7, Sector C, Askari 11, Bedian Road

Lahore, Pakistan

abdulnafaypak@gmail.com
+92 332 8118601

International School Lahore

+92 324 4885541