Turmoil Poem by Naveed Akram

Turmoil is at heart and favour, turmoil, turmoil!
We are the beloved from the calamities of gold,
Our cause is strained by the musical instrument,
It is music of all that we see, it is all that we hear;
And record this understanding that men have heard.

Turmoil is the human meaning of this world at war,
Its bricks embellish us with intestines and clear food;
But our stresses outweigh the imbalances of the sword,
Our murders are outside the palace of our race,
And so mighty hours span the centuries of a hundred wars.

Turmoil begins to outrun the cars at night and midnight,
Moons appear in the day like lightning bolts of the fright.
The last days work out their meaningful ways like a disorder
Of the mind, a bipolar condition, or a manic decision,
So where is the mighty hour of this existence and desire?