“Delicious strawberries!” the peddler cried
I smiled, knowing he lied:
Strawberries of this large a size
are always the hormones’ pride,
I thought and pressed on my way, when
a voice in my head whispered thus again:
“Representations in sound collude with sight,
no less with smell or touch or taste
t’assail the mind and smite one’s hopes with blight
in thoughtless actions due to haste, resulting to waste.”
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The White Gloves
You can find the book at https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/524218 The story is taking place in a magic forest. Little Red Ridi...
1 comment:
This hormone thing has spoiled all the tastes, smell and sight. Unnatural nature.
The poem I found is loaded with doubt modern science and technology has created in us.
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