My Small Lady

My lady has died when she was a child,
Never has a hood been recovered, for she was a child.
The same dress she wore was red and blue,
Like the veins and arteries of her entrails.
Inside her studs a man of daggers and bones,
Bones are hers but both daggers lie hidden
And what are these promising weapons?
Are they thoughts, or wisdom eggs?
They are the daggers of blindness, foul things
Perish in the wilderness.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!