Strange times we are living
Strange that far tidings
Bear little meaning.
When writers write to please
Poets fail to recognise muses
Painters check pockets
Before portraits are made
Singers sing the agreeable
Parents teach offsprings
Their best servility.
Times, indeed, are strange
Thoughts, words, beauty, muses
Dreams, courage and morality
All should be locked up
And stowed in a dungeon
Lest they see the light
Lest they begin to sprout.
Comments
Post a Comment