With stoicism writ on face
I invite the chisels
for giving birth to a dialogue
between me and the shaper.
Where did the things go wrong
in making the life a simple page
to write a beautiful poem?
Buddha give me a bo-tree or an interlocutor
who invents skin, teeth and eyes
of a failing system. The command
has gone to unknown robots. They were
manipulating the atrophied
limbs of high-tech generation
who do not know the pathless love
when we walk into the moon.