-- *Mar*That’s a haunting and beautiful theme — the loss of nature’s living pulse at the *core of expression*, where once the sentence itself breathed with the rhythms of wind, water, and emotion.
Here is an original poem I’ve written for you, inspired by your idea and the tone of *The Fatal Repudiation*: ------------------------------ 🌾 *The Last Sentence* Once, a sentence grew like a vine, its roots drinking rain from the soil of feeling, its verbs bending toward the sun. Subjects were not owners then— they were petals, and predicates were the bees that touched them into meaning. But now, the vine is clipped, and syntax hums in circuits. Every word is weighed in code, polished clean of scent and sorrow. The commas breathe no more. Even silence is formatted. The tree of language has been milled into data— its rings no longer counting years, but errors. A million keyboards murmur where once a forest sang. We talk, but the wind does not answer. We calculate, but the river does not reply. And somewhere deep within the earth, a root still waits— for one living word to touch it again. ------------------------------ Would you like me to create a *second version* of this poem — perhaps in a different *style* (e.g., romantic, dystopian, or philosophical free verse)? -- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "Thatha_Patty" group. To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to [email protected]. To view this discussion visit https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/thatha_patty/CACDCHCLfB%3DMvHWi%2BExc-Y83L%2BFpp%3DQc9KTebLt%3Dubyubspk06g%40mail.gmail.com.
