My Fingers Burn
A memory wakens due to health of the limbs,
My fingers burn and singe with the hearts of contempt,
I never appeared before the icy winds,
Scattered rain was a family of repose.
My stopping was my wailing,
And my wailing became a well
For water to be drunk and trained,
Licking hungrily the memories of acts.
My winter-black heavens were astray in the smog,
Remembering the icy winds and tiring vastness,
Feeling the memories of ice and snow.
This day saw heavens and all the limbs of sight.
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Comments about this poem (My Fingers Burn by Naveed Akram )
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