Naveed Akram (15 December 1973 / London, England)
I hunched over the book of thoughts,
Contemplating the photograph,
Promising the exact inches of my thoughts,
Pumping the knees ever vigorously,
Strained by the conversation,
Then letting dozens of ants go by.
I read the mystery of a day that conspired,
In elegant italics it was written of menace,
Straightening the records,
Keeping comfort on the retreat,
Imagining myself with so many eyes and ears
That faltered and dismayed the senses.
Rebellious moments condemn us further,
Chickens have yoghurt to love,
The idea of milk has passed,
With fruit of the stalks to be contained,
And then the marches are on,
By the soldiers of relish and muddy waters.
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