From Cradles To Huge Graves Poem by Naveed Akram

A baby is a baby of apples in bloom,
The air of the forces combines with someone
Who is born to be the begotten one
So early in years and skin.
An aeroplane has flown above,
With the backpack of balloons,
Bibles are attached to its fuselage.

The clack of the locks of his bed
Resist him, as He, as a boy of burden
Connects to the circus so loyal
To schemes against woe,
Clowns have arrived on evenings
When Santa Claus abolishes fervour
So vivid as the sky unfolding.
The trap has yet to come.

The baby was in its right egg,
Explosive clothing was the elephant,
Fans concertedly define boredom,
As he connects to their relativity theories
When he grows according to clever
Gestures in the world.
The baby is now a child,
Forming old poems of joy that stir
The heavenly imagination.
You must marvel at it!

The family has left him alone in
His own world, a man of course.
Jet fighters applaud him,
With happiness to commend him
Insects and toys that are rare,
Adulthood is not his area of influence,
But always now the adulthood
Has approached him with guys and girls.

Ice-cream enacts meanings of the heart,
He swallows and makes himself manly,
To deserve is to be junk,
I am now his kitchen,
I am recently his knife
That appals him for its cutting.
Inside the heart lies a cure for his giants.

Little can death be!
Death is the giant that overtakes him.
Forming ideas in the sky is like the sun,
I am the knife and he is the sword
Fulfilling the fight so beleaguering.
We win wars due to health of the soul.