Dropping a voyage
across the printed pages,
he splashes through
the shallow WhatsApp.
Words are wearisome.
Expression seeks emojis.
Mangoes are ripe.
Song of nature flows out
of a syrinx.
Yet he kills the day
with the Angry Birds.
Ground is dry,
and in the growing shade.
Yet his foot and ball
keep aloof,
forgetting all
in the Clash of Clans.
He's the winner,
loser too,
in an endless run.
He leaves the world
for the Subway Surfers.
Only finger tips are alive.
This is an electronic growth,
devoid of thehuman warmth.
First published in The Literary Hatchet
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem