Letter to my friend - 7

In this vast life, my friend, it’s true, Few are there to listen to me, just a few. If a poet dies, perhaps the nation won’t mourn, But if poetry dies, it’s a world that’s torn! When we read a poet's verses, we’d feel alive, Inspired and uplifted, our spirits would thrive. Yet at this moment, those unmoved around, Have buried their feelings, their hearts tightly bound. Has warm feeling grown cold or flickered away? Do tender emotions grow old and decay? Or have people become like beasts of the load, Resigned to their fate on a burdensome road? We’re not surprised when rivers flow backward, And we don’t rejoice when youth finds its reward. Has our hearts turned to stone, feeling naught but dread, That we don’t grieve when a life is shed? In our pockets, the world’s news does reside, Reflected in screens, the human soul’s guide. Unable to think, the fool loses track, Gradually becoming a slave, turning back! In this vast life, my friend, it’s true, Few are there to listen to me, just a few. If a poet dies, perhaps the nation won’t mourn, But if poetry dies, it’s a world that’s torn!