The Democracy


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.

Tags: | Category: Life Poems

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