It Is Called Love

Towards a house reigns a sight called love,
Homes are burning with desire and from above.
To this light there is a character to encourage,
With discipline do this act, this is an advantage.
My house weeps in strong weather, too flying
With storms and burns of too much lying.
Then the storms subside and return,
Forever the lusts of the season are modern.
May the blending of pain be an utmost suffering,
For your house leaves us with pleasure and answering.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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