Tellurian Nights Poem by Naveed Akram

One bows down to aquilons nightly,
This tellurian night is of the grounds
A burgeoning prize that is night;
Underground is best served the right
To loiter like monks in the ground or soil.
One is impulsed to be the best here,
The tunnels are some form of hoveler,
The lifeboats are not here but the ground is deep;
Wrecked are the beasts underground.

But we are safer in this postable land
Of tellurian nights, the soil is immenser
Than the seas and lands put together.
The nights seem longer now that you are gone,
Made up of the smell and scents of earth descending.

Let us have our prize that beleaguers,
The biggest home; not some Verbarkibitka,
The same tent used by the Kirghiz Tartars,
But one I follow as the biggest prize or reward.
One uses the Fleshpot so that meat fries as well,
Like the bigger variety, not small amounts of sear.

They see much under the surface,
These tellurian nights seem like days and days.
Do not latinise like arabs or monks,
But be brotherly in some sense,
Be a beneficiary that is fixed in heart.