A beautiful poem…

Immature Fruit

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I know a poor, old man.
He is living in a remote land.
And he is searching for his soul-
for it was rotten-ed by gold.

From faraway,
the sounds reach out to him-
and he listens,
for peace forsakes him.

In faraway, he can hear, they are
listening to him cry-
For he is alive.
Alive!

For that meaning one seeks in life,
can never be found,
in the pleasures he gains-
but Β always in hardships that cause pain.

By: Khawaja Hamad

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