Never in the end do winters wilt, <br />Sadness applies to the soul of beds <br />And their souls are of beds that <br />Are cushions to the lives of man. <br /> <br />Much interests me as I gladly sit, <br />Finding the extravagance too much; <br />The fascination wreaks of the stones <br />And pebbles of surrender, often the best. <br /> <br />I have stolen the haste from the prison, <br />Cold and dank are the roots of its solitude; <br />Much of the time is wasted by philosophers <br />Who breed the energies and thoughts of society.<br /><br />Naveed Akram<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-beds/
