What poems will our children write
with no forests to behold
no birds to sing
no rivers to frolic in?
The dead nightingales shall
haunt their night time stories
while the heroines
scavenge in ignominy.
Poetry is dying
by her Mother’s death bed
while a great mountain
stands unconquered on the horizon
a heap of human apathy
burying us with its debris.
But don’t worry
for a parched throat can never
tell a poignant story anyway.
Photo Credit : Carlos Grury Santos on Unsplash
