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The Poem about Future


Is the hoot of phantoms
in an apocalyptic

of endlessness. Wherever
you look, there’s
a world of nothing but
the prophetic sand.

After our death, we’re still
alive to witness
the terrible consequence
of our greed.

Why should
one have thought

that because the dark
undercurrents of
history was on our side,

because potatoes
could no longer suffice
our miserable hunger

human wisdom
could have dared
against all odds
to bury the paucity of light
in the abundance
of earth?

What was not at stake?
if not each of the forms of life
drawing closer to the specter
of extinction and, by then,

the scant resources, too,
that sustained them.

The numerous obscenely
enacted planetary
exploration missions
proved hoax.
We always knew

that Mars was uninhabitable.
Why should a human conscience
have conjured habitation
on another planet,

in another swirling orbit,
in another circle of motion,
after bringing a barren ruination
to the life he possessed
on earth?

After our death, we’re still
gasping for the last breath.

But the air is rancid. Our
agony, relentless. And

we’re – well – the skeletons
of regret, awaiting

the final day.