Eastern Doors Poem by Naveed Akram

The maiden of the east is sudden
As the thunder of the storm at billowy night;
The makers of sublime spring are caught
By innovated practices enlarged by the monuments.
This statue of the golden earth is like pottery
Of this ground we grind in our shoes.
An idol of the nightmarish rigorous day
Descends roasting the joints on a divided leg,
What is the heat of the offered oven?
Open the doors of sense, I could think the realities
Of a day something brought,
When you are drearier than the summer's lane.