Diseases

When do cries bleed from diseases?
Where are the destinies and denizens?
My illness carried magic, little ones,
The little one will answer us suddenly.
Our houses of horror carry an armchair
In which I sit and bend like heaven.
The drag course is danger, like opening
And closing us foolishly.
Crying is like weeping in the whole month,
Up in the clouds of the mountains.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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