TO THE VOICE OF NATION

Once, The Literatures made a rhythm of truth,
With an aloft pulp of pride beneath.
Kids had a white bird as their first toy.
Farmlands and loam spake,
Utterly folkloric.

Over time,
The little people,
Often became derelict,
With hollow facts and
Woody lies fed.
Eroded teeths and tongues kept unspoken.

Over the crust,
Birds under the trees,
Hordes under the tents
Were burned! Sallow.
These ashes would augment It's fortitude,
Once, twice and thrice.

Those Killer Kings,
Must slithered down onto the grounds,
Poisoned overlay.
Creeping crowns left to decay.
Redundant worms would rises,
In a trauma of oppression.
A serpent too emanate.
Loathe it's breathe and taste.

There after, An art of death throes Beautify bleaky monuments.
Neither its blood, veins or heads Would argue merely as 'HUMANE'

An autocrat sleeps like a Shepherd,
Keeping trust as antidote.
The dispersed narcissism,
Being an asteroid,
Burns the shoreline.
Over the skies, Soils and milk.

The written sculptures,
Towards Deontology oh!!
Rules and acts are merely incoherent.
Ugly actions must assault.
If the rulers do unjustness,
Will they convict themselves?

Beside the bricky bushes,
The children bear black birds.
Lichens too made lessons for beings.
Letting the small fishes live,
Unto their next life.

Yet i believe,
For rotten fruits and berries,
Inside, there maybe good seeds.