By Harsh Raj
Cherishing the torrential rain from his snuggly reside,
The writer cogitates on the dreadfulness that lies inside
This indolent cohort, blind to the arts that truly preside.
And rain dances in his gaze, beholding how writing has died.
How could one bypass the roots, which carved the very leaf?
For the leaf has now rotten— the roots mustn't be forgotten.
Once the quintessence of art, now bleeds acutely shotten,
Like exploitation of that human race in those fields of cotton.
Keep those inked pages intact, which forged earthlings' belief,
And incinerate the machines that pastiche writers, for relief.
The frivolous claim to replace and supersede must die in vain;
The world ought to distinguish between the side and the main.
Brutish commercialism must ne’er prompt creative art to drain.
Thy choice to make— ostracize now or acquire a rusted brain!
Raise thine imperative voices, and let them models ne’er train.
Deride the bots, yet who’ll mend the ills of the ignoramuses,
Who pursue the beats while shunning the pertinence of verses?
And them dimwits bias art, favouring what’s easier to grasp—
Hence suffer all the literature forms, since intellect is an ask.
The most pristine art genre that embellishes every hue of life—
Wilt thou save its essence, or forsake it to a slayer’s knife?