Monday, June 20, 2016

Pramila Khadun writes

A world called tomorrow

We sat around a hearth of dim fires 
Sipping our coffee laced with sugar.
Considered as most acclaimed and influential poets, 
By the usual world of glitz and glamour,
We were rather focusing on mankind's fate 
While the river flowed languidly.

We remembered the illustrious moments 
Of great inventions, of great makers of civilization,
Of fighters of liberty, the abolition of slavery, 
The languages, the writers and the satires,
The painters and the singers and accompanying musicians 
And the sweet sweat on the neck of farmers.

We, as avant-gardistes of our times 
Could not allow our minds to play old thoughts.
Our unrelenting passion for humanity's progress 
Which must glow like paint on canvas,
The gleaming light that stands on man's path 
Will never leave man like old trash or recycled garbage.
Man's evolution must not lead to man's degeneration.

While the columns of smoke rose 
Like falcons flapping their wings
For the great heights, with graceful composure, 
We eased our troubled hearts
And prayed for man's unity, for love and for peace. 
Prayers have powers, conclusively, incisively.
With our uniform loneliness, we started drawing 
On plain paper, with our box of crayons 
Of a world called tomorrow.

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