He Never Died

He never died on a month that stank
Of silver and gold,
An attachment to great works,
The matter of working in a place of beauty,
And acquiring care on the left and right.
The entire year has felt awkward
Since you disappeared, felt the collision
Of years as if they meshed into each other.
Of all the rotten days, this day was the worst;
For it forgave nothing whatsoever,
Dividing the anguish from the grief
And subsisting always like a bear
That drags its weight over vast areas
In front of Nature.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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