Mud Called Blood Poem by Naveed Akram

The mud called blood disentangles the primary colours,
Forty feet of mud is blood of the repulsions and attractions.
I call it blood, from a generation's sound and distance,
The horn is blown from a village-top, a town erects itself.
I have a pair of boots, with attributes of absolutes and disputes,
They travel down a lane to disentangle the fame we compute.
I am a bandit of recent soldiers, a movie sounds from a distance,
The distant scene discovers a shadow and a ritual of mightiness.

The mud was on my boots, it was full of funny lemon curd,
Sweeter than the blood that was from a distance, a worn angle.
The diluted spring, coming from a garden in corruption,
Erupted from beginnings of gold and silver staying in the dark.
This blood on my boots distributed the savings of a hundred years,
The books rolled to the ground, after lifting the age and heavens,
Like the prosecuted tribe, and all of the gold sacks befitting the time;
So hazardous was the climb of the pollution and nightmare of life.