Naveed Akram (15 December 1973 / London, England)

He budged not, he budged not,
Emphatically the words denied the words
As speech rallied forth due to conspiracies
Attacking one's strength, into the madhouse.
Something to remember was the sickness,
Something of the sickness was to remember.
Its declarations were vomiting,
Best to pluck the feathers,
And break away from glorious illness,
Such was the sickness of the days that were dallied.

Days of the best boats read their mischief and calls,
To write now was to stay smaller than everybody.
Gathering me was like gaining bread and butter
To be made anew after every avenue,
Twitching to the side of us,
Twisting the lying flowers to the right,
And then to the left.
The world was a killing feudalism,
Raining down like the thunderstorms.