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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 13:00:48 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 34843
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Whispers overheard
[time] => 2004-02-13 10:28:15
[hometext] => medicine is an art based on conjecture and improved by murder
[bodytext] => Whispers overheard Hark! Thou patients and ye the healers alike, Assiduously engaged in thine insidious hike, Amidst perplexities of maze that end naught, In pursuit of the very unknown, both caught! An irony! A blind leads there another blind, As within one finite unveils the infinite kind, Hither and thither and who kneweth whither! To meet the impending finale, ah both dither! A stride, a step ahead and human error withal, In the stupor of knowledge oblivious of pitfall, The spectre of intellect billows minstrel laughs, The invisible finger ploys on disguised graphs! No one is near to help me, there’s no fair dawn, Aren’t I to the doom, slowly but unfairly drawn! No hand to hold mine, ah no lips there so sweet Drop a few comforting words, nay eyes to meet Drop a tear in compassion or in biting remorse, To twinkle on mine bosom in its eternal course, I shalt shake off my slumber to greet the morn’ That seems to give forth its light in very scorn! On the image which hadst lost its coveted zest, Tainted charisma! Of yore ’twere divine blest! That my wanton eyes hadst once fondly beheld! Which my wandering fancy hadst ever spelled! In the somber morn’ light if I could only read, Medicine’s all conjecture, if I could only heed, Never an art now but remains a swelling trade, The unmoored demons on the rampant parade! The art of healing has since turned a wily craft, Souls have turned crooked in the worldly mart! Ah that friendly soul! Whither that sweet relief! No moans! Hadst I earlier felt the bliss of grief! From pillar to post, door to door! Where’s he? Hippcrate of olden times, the solace, the glee! Ethics and compassion both have blown away, Hounds are on the loose as wilt predator prey! I’ll moan all the acerbic syllables of my woe, Thru the lyre of reed, I shalt billow them go! Amongst the dead, victims wilt akin to palm! That were recklessly felled for its juicy balm! By Riaz Ahmad Raja Dr. 455/A, Block B, Faisal Town, Lahore – Pakistan January 23, 2004 riazrajadr@yahoo.com [comments] => 1 [counter] => 252 [topic] => 56 [informant] => riazraja [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 25 [ratings] => 5 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => sarcasticpoetry )
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