He neither reads a book nor nurtures reading.
Shakespeare’s grave is visible in his mind.
A writer is either a psychopath or a hashish addict in his default mind.
In the world where money dominates, verses are weeds.
He melts and pours the material thoughts into the tender ears.
The children are tied to the rock in the middle of the textbook.
He has stacked theories in his brain.
As formulas and equations echo, imagination and emotion die.
What he produces in the drought will indeed be economically valuable.
The parents, too, want a professional, not a man.
His teaching is as a priest performing funeral rites.
First published in The Literary Hatchet
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