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Golden colours by the river, old and grey 
they sparkle over each side of Bamiyan Valley

Shines and smiles of caves annihilate them
Prior to Monk XuanZang to fabled silk road.
You heard the fire and bombs in the veins of heart’s purr.

They are all stones; one big, another smaller.
It was a Sunday, a pray day and you heard the egos of
screams:  morals! Your eyes and lips ampersand

Dusts and sands persist over 1700 years of Dynasties.
Sculptures of love vanished at Bamiyan valley

Was this loves outcome then, these stones made, red materials                                                 
Addressed with an order of elimination that fires so blindingly?
“Not in vain, not in vain, Shall I look for you again”
The voice of XuanZang transformed his precepts are sound,
“An infinite…XYZ”  with the veins of our eternal love.

Their eyelids say.
The Bamiyan Buddhas appear to have been the work of the Gandhara civilization, showing some Greco-Roman artistic influence in the clinging drape of the robes. Small niches around the statues hosted pilgrims and monks; many of them feature brightly-painted wall and ceiling art illustrating scenes from the life and teachings of the Buddha.
Moss M Jacques Jun 2021
I don't have to do this
But I can't let this escape me.
We don't cave in
And look for a hideaway
We don't capitulate
And let things fade away.
We renew our spirit,
We renew ourselves,
We renew our world.
We rekindle our inalienable desire
To leave free
And to maintain our freedom
Wherever we set foot
And against all odds.
When and where
It is unavoidable
we answer the call to safeguard
Our humanity,
Protect children and women
And fight for peace.
We push all limits to establish civilizations
In the most uncharted territories;
We ***** cities, towns, and states,
We build countries
Across wilderness and unruly seas;
We proudly raise our flags,
Symbol of the greatness of the human mind.
I don't have to do this
But I can't let this escape me.
It must be said in unison:
Let's make poetry great again.
Norman Crane May 2021
what if people had hearts,
and cared for one another deeply,
everyone doing his part
to improve his neighbour's condition completely,
without reward or remuneration,
only love for the entire human population?

what if cows had wings,
and buzzed above abattoirs like bees,
*******—as nectar—the skins
off the bodies of humans, fallen to their knees,
in repentance and commiseration
with the suffering of all living things?
Norman Crane Apr 2021
listen to them wingmongers
circling round
squawking about how
there be tiny cities on the ground
moss barble asphalt
laid down
betwixt twig-mud megatowers
architecture of invisible sound
leaves decomposing, ants scurrying
spider weaving her web,
connecting flowers like power
lines buzzing beetles hurrying
all the way down the naturebound
off-ramps to the nine burrows
past the dead squirrel,
through the downpour
of fungal spores more
self-sustainable than any city of yours,
screech the wingmongers,
and from dirt level
i understand their song
these tiny cities will be
long past
when our civilization's long gone
Chad Young Feb 2021
What exactly does this expenditure of energy for solving a math problem do?
After I forget about solving it, what do I have?
An accomplishment?
I have conquered a bit of logic and reasoning; just as this sentence does, but math takes more effort usually.
It is precisely the reason that math requires more effort than reading or writing that there is a following behind it.
That's probably why I'm into it.
Because not everyone does it due to its difficulty.
So it is an exclusive group.
This is why it is bothersome to know others have excelled beyond me in math, because they have put forth the work; that they were tired enough of their ignorance to accomplish so much.
It is nice to know what I
could and couldn't accomplish from seeing them.
99% of mathematicians will never put forth a new theory or solve a once unsolvable question.
It would seem my whole life of math would prove futile in light that this exclusive "club" only allows 1% to make a dent in human history.
Therefore, I must strive, see it as a process of unending steps, and pray that I will add some work to humanity's progress.
low poetry Dec 2020
Full of doubts,
making the decision.
Ignoring taunts,
implement the vision.

civilisation is going to die.
ask yourself question - why?
James Study Nov 2020
plywood windows
              dusty streets
                         faded graffiti
casper Nov 2020
As potent as the drugs flowing from an IV drip,
I the prodigal son of this town,
the only one to infuse the blood of a much needed sacrifice into it's veins,
the one to carry the souls of those past,
those future,
those fleeting few at the end when the long standing foundation that has held up countless feet and dreams,
no longer stands and in it's place breadcrumbs fall,
thousands from the sky,
folly and few,
until embedded in the very ground it lands upon.

I, the one from the third house down the lane,
the all seeing all knowing all feeling touch,
climb the silo and above take in the view,
the little lives and scattered stories,
told once in still rooms with only the orange light of a desk lamps,
then carried away on drool into the storm drain,
with the leaves and street grit.

I, the babe,
once innocent and tender,
and still so within me exists,
carried through an entire lifetime on a sled,
down the sidewalk with only the sight of street-lamps as stimuli,
past every corner and home a dream implanted from my eyes to theirs,
yet mistranslation corrupts the many and what can I do but allow,
their own bibles to be written.

This town belongs to one king and one son on both sides of the mountain,
snow to teach them lessons,
rain to cleanse their wounds,
and to keep this monolith of a civilization alive,
all that is prophesied,
to run far, far away,
in place.
Dedicated to my home town.
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