Poetry is dying by her Mother’s death bed

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

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