As the evening sun dipped in the blood-red horizon,
A gust of Silence came, whispered and then hushed
The warm air that was hastily passing the dungeon
Of thick scrub where the quivering grasses blushed.
The last flickering of Sun vanished and it was time.
Darkened, It was time for hunting and to be hunted.
The primordial cycle of hunt began in a raw chime
Of survival for the fittest. All hunt now enchanted.
Night here is so horrifying, even the Breeze dares
To sound its airy hum. Predators roam everywhere.
From the high branches, dark caves, dark soil-crater
And thick bushes, the primordial Eye of Death stares.
The Primordial creatures trample, fly, glide, clutch
With their teeth, claws, peaks soaked in the blood.
Creatures perish, new creatures emerge here in such
A world of Hunters, Hunted. All wander like cloud.
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Comments about this poem (The Primordials by Osman Gani )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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