Humane

I pick up all the flowers

Put it in a bowl of hope

To juice it into tiny drops of faith

And mingle them with morals

Of old, made to fall in my path

I creep down into the plaits of past

To grasp the ethics embedded

Out of which I built a concrete

No stones, boulders and cement

But of miracles

To shut my eyes

To hold my tongue

To block my eardrums

For just one question of

“Humane”.