On this blessed land <br />Foundations of giant structures <br />Are laid over virgin landscapes <br />Blotting the antiquity <br />And burying the ancient panorama <br />Under the crust. <br /> <br />Pandemics spread <br />With a pollinating effect <br />And no cure at all <br />Thus, Mankind withers <br />Like petals of olden flowers. <br /> <br />The overwhelming productions and foundries <br />Disperse their smog <br />That takes away <br />The freshness of myrtles. <br /> <br />New orchestras are formed <br />And people rise <br />With neoteric melodies <br />Yet, unaware of melancholic sounds. <br /> <br />Flying metallic birds <br />Throw their droppings <br />Full of fire <br />Disseminating hatred and grief <br />And dreams perish <br />Halting the lively cherish. <br /> <br />Units, full of apetite <br />Even with their complete boundries <br />Still try to expand <br />And no one cares <br />Because the whole world is <br />In the trance of players! <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />(12/31/2008)<br /><br />Sameer Ahmed<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/players-8/
