Grass Grows


The stretch of grass over there,

Beautifully cut  and tended with care,

Where the sparrows descend in pair,

Chirping and chattering in a lovely fair.

 

Grass grows say some with disdain,

They know not the pleasure we gain,

Speak lowly of Nature’s fine  train,

Unaware that the grass looks like a shrine.

 

The tired eyes see  structures of concrete,

Massive and monstrous revealing a mistreat,

Sending a sensation of nauseated beat,

Signalling a direction of regretful greet.

 

The greenish hue  amidst the concrete jungle  is invisible

Stones and mortar have overwhelmed the  preamble,

The artificial  landscape is but a poor cousin to natural ramble,

Letting out a desolate morbidity in a shamble.

 

Yet grass grows in whatever space possible,

Only to be uprooted to make way for skyscrapers reliable,

Sealing the fate of the environment to a trouble,

Ensuing a crash of the equilibrium in a loud decibel

 

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