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.