On paper,
The latitude of this poem sits in rough notebooks and geography chapters,
Slipping into cold minds,
Struggling to make a move, on world map.
In practice,
The world is now a shade card of red,
And in no time, it will be brown,
Or maybe white
Where we all will be on the verge to be numb like extinct species,
Waiting for a shift, a life generating one,
“What goes around comes around"
whispers in morse code another poem on a significant day,
To slip into our minds,
But I fear what if they slip like glaciers?
Because, we chop the eco friendly quotes the very next day while throwing plastic bottles on the railway station
and burning numerous firecrackers on diwali nights,
But I fear what if we resemble embers of firecrackers, burning from within, returning to ashes?
The axis of the words are forgotten in no time,
So I write active poems to alarm you,
And this time,
My poetic devices are not guilty to be renewable, time and again, to sink into your mind, every other day.
This time,
My poems have become a sanctuary so as to preserve the terminology of the rare living ones,
Still, the numbers are less, of living poems (leading to action) and species.
How I wish my poems don't become a non- living museum to hold onto beautiful earth like history, a history overshadowed by a new model of our home on science exhibition day.
How I wish!
