Naveed Akram (15 December 1973 / London, England)
Holding like a rod in thieves’ blood,
In step you heat those blood vessels
I call him to they who walk the eastern times
And reflect over virtual waters sold forever to God.
Against anguish my beneficent being is surprisingly harsher,
For perhaps the worst ill-treatment of human accomplishment is in the pen of writers.
They specially live a lie to entertain others, and so they help one another from wrong doing.
Lift the pen or pencil you are in,
Traverse a logical thought pattern,
Forever in my sleep I reside.
I wrote the line of my sleep.
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