Naveed Akram (15 December 1973 / London, England)
Range Of A Missile
The range of your weapon is of a long bow,
Sinners arrive at the district that shudders and sinks,
Shrinking from the evil that encamps,
Neither the willowy nor the heavenly
Shall camp their fires at the dressed earth.
The range of your weapon starts to be famous,
Even numbers become themselves
But odd numbers are filthy rich,
For the memories exist.
To see my grazing animals in their pastureland
I must meet them as meat to be carved on
The dining table. It is the delivery of food,
And food has a master.
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