Naveed Akram (15 December 1973 / London, England)
The fragrancy of the walks and bowers
Was hearing from a tree in one orchard,
When I considered that there was no religion
In my house of houses, a stupidity crept in
To see the fragrancy of the tree upon me.
After some short pause, the selfish boy,
Rotating on his feet, launched himself into
Them. He did it afterwards, and then some
Time escaped the clutches, reading the enemy
Or me, the strangeness of the position!
I do not remember when I really heard him speak,
As I was sitting in my chamber, as I heard some bounces
At my landlord’s door. And clarity spoke to me,
As I heard the bounces at my landlord’s door.
We were now arrived at Winter-Gate,
A place of great trees, taller than skies
And vast oceanic masses, much like the swords
Of the high sultans, living within,
Living away from real life-surroundings.
The fear of the boy was enough to hurt and cry,
One cry came aground and hurt the eyes and ears,
It pierced the strange boy, and it metamorphosed,
It glanced at him. He did really depart now.
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