A bygone saying, to never take on
streets,
Your griefs, grieving, big or small;
As spectators never leaf through deepest
trench,
And all propinquity is to put, on record.
Political opponents or not, would undress
griefs,
Not on the lands where the same was born;
And until every drop is made to squirt
or squeeze,
Amidst such a gravity the forums revolved.
Yet, Ethicists, would draft editions of
right or wrong,
And what’s been done for millennia in amour;
Alas, a plodder on duty for the rest,
That’s been covered in dust behind
closed doors.
Clamouring now to draft for organoids or
artificial,
The Intelligence that would rise for
sure;
Unlike the ones’ who dwelled in oblivion,
The Statesmen were; alas, but are no
more! ☹
© Pranav Chaturvedi 2023