Plains of Arnon

Juvenile dragons circle the plains of Arnon,
With lethal breath the trees blaze for some time;
They are now producing other breaths,
Obliged to hold their breath for it is fire.
We must demand the signs from the deity of fate,
Death, and judgement.
It is of little interest, it is of no help!
For the levels of fire are great.

Arnon leaps into commodities of smoke,
The very bare ground scorched forever;
To craft the air with smoke is grand,
To meet doom this way is grand,
But towards the cities of dragons we head,
To find a pleasant air in addition to a saviour,
He might be a hunter of gigantic souls.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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