Cease the Greedy Knives : Palash Mahmud
When the sun has scratched a ring of fire up in the air
Down here the whistling woods are burning and blare.
The more the greener the grasses, the most the deepest
The sighs fusing with spouting smokes that are thickest.
When the moon has dropped melting lights down the river
Up there the carnival of breath ends in death and dare.
The less the size the more the numbers, the less the cruel
The more the wounds making the landscapes a charcoal.
Yet not we compel the wind to pause the raging line
Not even we plead the water not to flush the bristlecone pine.
Alas! we are in competition to outnumber moneys than leaves
We fail to force the gods, the kings to cease the greedy knives.
At last we have made our own hell sitting on a throne of spike
At least the woods, the roots know how the hell looks like.
Comments
Post a Comment