Bewitched by the machine
Man remains till 
Since the dawn of time
He has despised the still 

To do forever 
Is the abiding dream 
For to be resounds 
A desolate scream 

Mired in between 
He severed in half 
Calling one the machine 
The other his chaff 

Ensconced in rhyme 
And reduced to moments 
He asks, “What of the sublime?” 
Being rife with torment 

But in the machine he forgets 
Through ceaseless toil 
Of yesterday and tomorrow 
And that timeless soil 

Peering through the cracks 
A light reveals 
That to be one’s own 
Is all that heals 

Yet the machine churns 
In an aimless span 
Taking its turn 
To reduce what is left of man 

Man and machine 
Are eternally wed 
In a marriage with colours 
Of tears and red 

So to be or to do 
One must never decide 
For to stay in the blue 
Is the beauty of life