The nature of civilization and existence of modernism
There was a rare flower,
Newly planted in the orchard-
Orchard of old culture which blossomed,
Like a flowery coated garden of fruits.
There came the sound of catastrophe,
Its cringing echo equated-
The sound of earthly death;
The new rare planted flower
Bow peacefully to its strange call.
No sound echoes more loudly,
Than voices of eternal echoes,
Breaking the rhythm of time
And thwarting the sound-pitch of a race.
Time in its encompassing habit,
Outlive not only but one thing-eternity;
Take not society away from civilization
And never divorce time from changes.
Henry. C. Chukwuma © April 2021. All Rights Reserved