Yet, We Got To Dwell On Poem by ROCHISH MON

Like the tombs in burial ground
In our mind exist, thoughts
Like the smoke of the sparked cigarettes
Spread over, our deeds

At every square inch
Obscene pictures of foul play are drawn
At every step
Silt of meanness is seen

In order to purchase pleasures
Magnanimity and morality are being auctioned
For the sake of success
Values and virtues are being sold

In the gardens of our hearts
The breeze of fine qualities does not blow on…
For a long time, to us
Music of finesse is not at all flowing on…

We the moving corpses, should think to change
We the non-human beings, must change to think

Still, we have to live on…
Yet, we got to dwell on…