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Progress

Who have killed all the glowworms,
Behind whom we ran to catch,
And they flew like lowering stars,
Scattering lights all around?

Where have gone the nightingales,
That sang while cherishing the berries,
Their melodies were much sweeter to the mind,
Than the jumbled music of the modern times?

Where have gone the cooing doves,
And the chirping sparrows that awoke us all,
Before the sunrise they departed to seek,
Their fate in the shape of scattered grain?

Why the tasseled prime rose blossoms not,
On the other edge of the flowing stream,
Where now stinking substance creeps?
Here were the farms where the children ran,
After the butterflies: the flying, floating dreams.


How seedily numerous homes are built,
And how sooner men came close to men,
In the same so-called community?

But all suffer and sigh,
Groan and moan individually alone,
No one inquires after the ailing patients,
Tossing unaided on the death beds,
And reluctantly are followed the coffins.

Love does not find the place in the minds,
To nestle, nourish and nurture itself.
All seats in the minds and hearts,
Are usurped by hatred, avarice and greed.
I often ponder over the progress of man,
That has crushed the real taste of life.

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