Poetry matters like pure oxygen
like open wide spaces
like simple unadulterated food,
like eight hours of deep sleep.
Glaciers in the North Sea melted
unaware of the gruesome reality—
we have mutated like them
before extinction, before flowing
away into nooks of nowhere.
When utter insanity rules,
when current history is written in blood
when human rights are squashed like
cockroaches emerging from gutters
when children are sold into brothels
when paper currency dazzles and dazes us
how can poetry matter?
*Mushtak Ali Khan Babi