The Heart

The heart is attacked by the opponent or enemy,
This heart feels heavy with hurt, it is my heart.

Then this murmuring is felt by the winner of love,
This noise is fond of more for discomfort, it is my heart.

Let no fondness be more exact than the one you hold,
So that more feelings of joy surround the effort from your heart.

Little is done by those in basic life, the life of celebrations,
It is this childhood then in appearance so alert with your heart.

Minds and methods succeed in order to let others perform well,
Like the illness of a century, like those of the expert of your heart.

The intelligent thought so well hidden is offering a line of endurance,
Many have believed in beliefs that stem from the pervert, but My Heart?

So careful is the intellectual place called the university of life and death,
The organs too fearful of more blood are meant to invert the heart.

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poem by Naveed Akram
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Spiritual Travel

The heart has a tongue so bright, so red with muscular strength
And able to converse with what is right and correct, with spiritual travel.

The conversations are bigger than stories of the most ancient,
In these simple words we reiterate the sorry tales to connect with spiritual travel.

Our tongues need untying when the character of a man performs worst,
Repent and be helped from the sin uttered altogether and checked with spiritual travel.

Our souls walk in gardens of delight after the times of goodness, of greatness,
So sorry is the man who longs for the only platform that is to detect with spiritual travel.

A new reward is given to those too high in secret knowledge, in the unseen facts,
Controlling them is then simplest, knowing them is direct, with spiritual travel.

My God is precious when you moan and deserve more from reasoning and testing some,
The men and women who are children shall grow out of moaning to disinfect, with spiritual travel.

To see the water on the journey of life is like seeing huge rivers flow into your mouth
And down the oesophagus, to collect in the stomach and then to expect with spiritual travel.

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poem by Naveed Akram
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Religious Family

Sisters and brothers are one of those precious members
In the family. Their role is infinite.
They shock themselves with delight.
They read signs and play with them.
Their signs are obvious,
Useful to the parents,
Forcing action of the family.
Heaven can arrive around the bend,
When the families die and their hell is dismissed by God.
Mothers shall look forward to heaven, and their husbands
Are found too in heaven, or shall I say Paradise.

“My son is big at religion, ” says the father to his child.
For this prayer to be answered, the boy must be big, an adult.
His life at the moment has laws broken, the lawful one is not him.
For he is criminal in his action, in his life and love.
He spent a time with another person, and did not get married.
He did not like this now, and not seven times a week.
He must pray and be forgiven, would say God.
God loves the boy’s father, however, and thus the boy is forgiven

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poem by Naveed Akram
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Exceptional Food

The meal was over as I spoke,
Innards kept the blessing of cooking;
My spoken tongue was inert
As prayers were repeated.
My religion was of fasting
And not cooking or banquets.

It was my religion that mattered,
Like the oval office and similar places
Of comedy, the very seriousness,
The very proud deeds of the soul,
And those that mattered
To the food or taste we take with the day.

Now that dinner was over,
I was over, and this deed was over.
I lifted my fork to speak wonders
That astonished everybody’s taste,
Like the lunch of the noon
And dinner of the light of the night.

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poem by Naveed Akram
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Flowers Bloom Like People

The flowers in the garden strike blue,
Just like lovely you.
These flowers at the forefront speak loud,
Opening the doors to what is allowed.
Never do we release so many scents
As this day. This day, we march like gents.

Just like roses we announce,
We sometimes ponder and pounce.
In effect we denounce our leaders,
Leading the committee of readers.
These are the authority of the dance
Of flowers, in our garden of chance.

From this garden I walk into fields,
Then streets are with us, no more hayfields.
The green garden was behind now and then,
With innocence at its side, compared again.
A ghostly swamp is not our task,
Merely we dine in pleasure and mask.

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poem by Naveed Akram
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