Naveed Akram Poems

From close quarters a lovely woman has deserted the field,
An endless night is spent on the return journey due to the field.
The better half of the woman is saying an act is according to an act,
It is the duty that deserves special mention, knowing the ropes of life.
...

Inside love is a deed, the possessor wails and agonises,
He or she flies to a spot of distress, and finally settles.
Inside this deed called love, a settlement has become an
Edge of a shape called Lustre; called also lust and lost.
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I have to connect your sweetness to love and beauty,
Only my eyes swivel and see the love in front of me.
If never crying, you will be dying, shedding a tear
For the creator at the end of this short stay on this world.
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Here the bursting of the flesh ceases, as forever the fall
Has diminished and been understood by the men of high degree.
The barriers of a jester subsist, the bursts of the heaven exist,
Just too much love exits and exerts the lover's quarrel.
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The road is muddier than snowy tracks,
Like your finger and thumb, as far as the sun.
I sentence you to a quiet death and winter,
Open is the shelter of a crow of distinction.
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I am small as can be, swift as a dagger,
Like birds my weight is carried, a sorted
Affair, of percussion instruments, and lore.
The study of the people of the drums
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The sand in the air whirls and swirls in ever drums,
No one sports the men who lie dumb on the pavement,
Living is a livid one affair, calling the death of the secret,
A man is called deceased when he nears the pairs of youth.
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One feels the drums beating in the sound of the air,
Ears are popping, pulling the ropes of an eternal tension.
Let go of friendship, for all friends will die before birth,
The one who is Friend is indeed the one most beloved.
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Smile in the mighty mirror of amazement,
It is your face inside that is a day of years,
Every morning and every noon the sun
Shines to glorify the creatures under it.
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To create a profession of being is like calling a home the house,
My life is full of comedy, full of tragedy, fulfilling ghostly precepts;
The book is a glamorous option for the dozens who ignore war,
When war has been, the heart wrestles with its future like iron ore.
...