The Hills Are Illness Poem by Naveed Akram

The hills and valleys are at one with me and mice,
For they are smaller than my artistry, and I am blessed.
Blood is on the head of a deathly shadow, hills
Are twisted around, sweet breezes shine with windy gust.

The vale submits to every man who loves a man of righteousness,
His ghost is a boast, a shining work of the praised world;
It is the milky scene of martyr's sleep, a scent of blending beauty,
What are twisted hills when shadows dissolve the fiery furnace?

The core of the earth can hear men rise from their argument,
Sweet and fresh, the gold is gold of a great grizzly monster;
Birds of every denomination burn their own flesh in the surrender,
Offering a nest to some of our illness and blessed vision.