The Ripe Fruit

The ripe fruit was a blend of the highest wine,
Its old person was a castling woman who dropped
Into the buildings of battlements at a low age,
Finding the soothing music of the bards and drudgery.
The keeping of family practice held a beholder,
To be lovely was a criminal walk of life,
To be hateful seemed to obliterate the wide wind,
For its molecules were of the energetic enigmas.

The ripe man was a motherly man, fatherly afterwards,
Like the good good man of the generations of citizens,
Fantastic men soared above the broken hives of bees,
Fantasies abated after the collapse of the castles and moats.
Let building be an occupation of the devil and pen,
The pencil worked arguments of the philosophy,
Memories folded like pages of books, philosophy of the world.
This philosopher was a gaping twin, offering some learning.

by Naveed Akram

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