Romantics Are Selfish Poem by Sk. Nurul Huda

I shall not write if they do not come-
In my every poem -as as leaves to a tree—
I say.
If I cannot portray the picture of the man
lame walking stumbling, the widow watching to
the heaven the, orphans piled in a rescue camp,
& etc from the modern arena of warfare
in my every poem, I shall not write-
I say.
But my indifferent sensuous friends
Are apt to their free flying feelings:
Give them murdered people
They would get beauty and voice.
Out of hell they would build heaven.
Give them grief they would cut
The net by escapism and
Would be chariot-ted by nightingale
Present them in devastation,
Bombed and burned barren field
They would write poetry
To gratify them and to a group learned
And polished to give
Aesthetic pleasure momentary
And transitory-
Oh! Arts for art's sake?
Bring them to the desolated empty houses-
Empty as all are crashed under bloody tanker driven
By an expert hand-they would write and say
For buried and airy listeners.
What is cannibalism? I forget.
Still they celebrate their aesthetics..
Sing for art…'we the creative persons..
We are self satisfied', their choric voice
Forgetting to ask them the questions
Raised by the lying people from the
Churchyard…
'Are you not liars..?
Are you not one eyed?
And also utter,
'O! The romantics… we are sorry for you.'