by Badri Raina
Then one called out to children,
Now we reach for Remotes;
Those homes had lively voices,
These currency notes.
What is a world without a voice
That one may call one’s own?
What worth this cloistered comfort,
With no sharer of pleasure or pain?
When was the last you met your friend
In beloved flesh and blood?
Now, not we but our laptops meet
As though we might be dead.
We now speak of ‘sentiment’
As stocks go bull or bear;
The ‘human’ seems a wasteful bore,
It is the ‘numbers’ that endear.