Shayan Afzal

In whispered hues of dawn’s soft light I lie,
A weary wight in linens’ gentle clasp,
Beset by ails that cause the hours to fly,
A tale of fevered chills, in whispers rasp.

The world without, a distant dream’s fair sky,
No flick’ring screens to mar this quiet grasp.
Instead, I’m cradled by the books that vie
To lead my thoughts through time’s gentle hasp.

But hark! The volta with citrus alight,
A glass of orange brew, nature’s kind buss.
Its tangy cure restores my waning sprite,
In each draught, a hint of sun’s own suss.

‘Neath covers, healing wings take their flight,
In leafs turned, I find my solace thus.