My Octahedron Poem by Naveed Akram

In this octahedron, the twists are moulded
So that your play is serious, so it merges,
Slides, involves the fingers, fixes a sight,
Satiates the obscure sight, the light of a shape.

One is children of the uncle who plays fortnightly,
His presence is a toy called the octahedron,
I am serious, playful, busy, observant to his requests
That give joy to the heart of a brother and friend.

The grandfather strolls in to see my square
Sitting in the room, a squadron is made to book
The heavens, the heavens revolve around,
And his head hurts, so we undergo change.

The spirits of the two men are alike,
Respect has been alight, aright, and quite quite.
The strolling and sitting men enjoy our playthings,
More than the children of old age and old mood.