Winter Beds Poem by Naveed Akram

Never in the end do winters wilt,
Sadness applies to the soul of beds
And their souls are of beds that
Are cushions to the lives of man.

Much interests me as I gladly sit,
Finding the extravagance too much;
The fascination wreaks of the stones
And pebbles of surrender, often the best.

I have stolen the haste from the prison,
Cold and dank are the roots of its solitude;
Much of the time is wasted by philosophers
Who breed the energies and thoughts of society.