It rained on the still pond of humanity,
where nothing flows.
The parched land and dried throat
of a farmer, so holy with faith –
dismantled and overburdened with time,
freezes in the summer of its existence.
It rained on this dried land,
drops of seed still grounded – no
fruits to bear, any hope?
Like monotony of children’s call
ringing as a cacophony,
noisy is the silent street in the lockdown
of our time where,
the sun still basks in the moonbeam of reflection – making
days and nights quite the same.
Along with spring and winter
the fall of our time is also slippery.
In modernity, we could not remain
We could not remain
Yet, we stand as a nation.
We stand as a worldwide notion.
some medusa of thinkers
connected like hairs
jointed for common visage,
please save humanity!