Not writing poems

A creepy thing, this business of not writing poems,
Especially as the night is ticking away and the leaves
Are not appearing to trees, as lightweight  keywords 
Appearing autonomously on the silence of the night.
Poetry words should come as spring leaves to trees.

The men occupy whole streets, walls, spaces, horizon,
Men  who speak different languages,each for himself,
So that language is not stolen, but patented for royalty.
They keep shouting into space, in the dust of a war
That should close at dusk as per the rule, before night.

Not being Mahabharata ,the war will not close at dusk.
They have powerful halogen lights in which to fight
And because the language of closing is not understood.
Each of them speak a different language for himself
Protected by intellectual property rights, copyrights.

A creepy thing, this business of our not writing poems
Especially ,when each of them speaks his own language
And poetry seems the only closing language before dusk.
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