Naveed Akram Poems

There are splendours that sway and strive,
A happy splendour it happens to be;
For the autumn is the song of loving,
And splendid weather is of the horizon.
...

O Lord, why do scientists be with their eyes
The compassion that entrances?
Is lovely fact a pleasure all about it?
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Love is the father of belief,
Inside the tumultuous memory
Is the remnant of disbelief
Mastering a few of the ideas.
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If a plant has hurt inside,
What does it feel?
Every night it seeps in pleasure,
Rolling hills have none.
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He is inaudible from you and kindness,
His words muttered are gladdening me.
Why do the strokes of the pen be wise?
From him they reiterate a mean life
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In the state of instant terror
My soul is enraged by Satan,
His relics are against my hearing
For they sound too sour for my
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I am my hands that uplift
Their twenty fingers so hard and fast,
Those I am that function
Due to my wits,
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Two matters conceal one another,
The passing of the seasons is a factor;
There are faulty workers in this season of our
Making, the making is in the folly.
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He is my suzerain, a mighty blow to the heart,
Downcast is the training of my heart that masters
The lamentable tones, as they unfold with crying.
Callous inhuman works are committed by some gross devil,
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Small portions of the world
Started to star in certain parts.
To write a book on the petals of the earth
Is like a nameless darkness,
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