Eating By Paupers Poem by Naveed Akram

This pauper’s paunch radiates a leg,
Working with water day in day out;
Little water is little pain for the mind,
Internal states are like stations of mastery.
I have enough of love, and rest is the best,
Legs are the curtains of this window called
Death, as I have my argument
And I have my pain.

I have more sayings to make,
To keep the honey of a dwarf,
Rising in front of him and slaying.
This day my words are salvaged
By those in the questioning,
Why do they react so swiftly?
My pains are built out of ingredients
Eaten by the ones who bloat and blend
Into shapes so worked by the animal past.