Naveed Akram (15 December 1973 / London, England)
When a man raced slowly through the muck
Capturing the needs of a false scent
In this wild African jungle,
He sped through roses of England
And wore a brocade of flowers
To commemorate the rainy rainbow.
His face smelt of love and hate together,
It knew him.
The roses felt good to touch as
The leather of his armour meant liberty.
A freedom was valued more,
And that was the liberty of forever,
In the rest of the world we might say
No to the false flowers of mightiness.
I see a man faultless as the sun,
His niece engages in enraging actions
Because the sun shines hot not cold.
Why does man suck muck tonight?
When do false flowers goad the airs?
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