Back in college, we learned a poetic form called the “ghazal” (pronounced “guzzle”), which is popular in Persia, India, Pakistan, and other countries. It’s a quite complicated form consisting of couplets. Each line must contain the same number of syllables, and each verse ends with the a rhyme, then the same word. The effect gives the poem a kind of “chime” when it is spoken.

The burden of compressed hours becomes hell for art.

All the hurry has broken the brittle shell of art.


Weeks speed on like rugs pulled out from under feet.

We can no longer force the clock to toll for art.


A noose of speeding time wrapped around the world’s neck

Has choked off all serenity, all forms of most swell art.


The heart that popped belonged to earth, to all humankind.

Into the void we fall, until by stumbling, we cease to dwell in art.


Nothing more can be said for fragments of time escaping into mist.

Our minds dulled by rapidity, we lose ability to tell through art.


Value is taken for granted, society falls as do teardrops.

There will be no one to cry for it, to want, to propel any art.


Slipshod is the world when time shoves us through doors.

Beneath layers of wreckage, does there ring a farewell to art?

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