Blips
Electronic bodies traveling on,
Here to there,
Each its own purpose,
Each its own place to be,
Passing by each other,
Disappearing then there,
Blips then solid objects,
Covered in an ethereal cloud,
Then out into the sunlight.
Blips
Electronic bodies traveling on,
Here to there,
Each its own purpose,
Each its own place to be,
Passing by each other,
Disappearing then there,
Blips then solid objects,
Covered in an ethereal cloud,
Then out into the sunlight.
Poetry is what is lost in translation.
Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.
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