Crossed Hands Poem by Naveed Akram

With two crossed hands I pretend to dismount
My horse, swinging its nightly neck in the horizon.
I almost thought of my master’s hands, and this
Is for the last ten years running - the faults I convey.
We are all rich in the end, in the ends of this land,
We are strikingly richer than all the world.
The melancholy turns me paler than athletes,
Mud created me from mud, like an illiterate athlete.
Then light the lamp, overshadow the runners
With bold stares and fittings, a leg will caress you.
My offer still stands, my different men are here,
For the chief of all these men consider you sport.