Ruins are buildings of ripe fruit,
Inner souls work finer than heaven.
Must not the surety of life bespeak,
Must we insure their fear is true?
Ruined by the cold and weather
The innocence of men is like an adult.
Under this sea of hatred lies a golden medallion,
Master it for your pleasure to arise, to arise.
This gold forsakes underlings, this gold is truth,
For less of it stays, less treasure becomes.
Naveed Akram
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/finding-treasure/
