The Age of Wires and Whispers

In the hum of screens and silicon skies, Where hearts beat in code and truth wears disguise, We walk in crowds with heads bowed low, Lit by a glow we barely know. Eyes locked on glass, yet souls adrift, Each tap a tremor, each scroll a rift. We speak in pings, not pulse or breath— A quiet kind of living death. The child now learns from faceless light, No mother’s gaze, no father’s rite. Laughter is typed in crooked signs, And silence blooms in digital mines. Once, we danced to winds and rain, Now calendars dictate joy and pain. We schedule love, we timestamp grief, Yet feel more hollow with each new leaf. Innovation, dressed in gleaming pride, Built bridges wide, yet none inside. We touch the stars, but not our kin— What world have we constructed in? A thousand friends, no single call, A million likes, but none who fall To catch us when the night grows loud, When peace dissolves into the cloud. Robotic hearts in tailored suits, Chasing meaning through metal roots. We buy new peace in shrinking screens, While nature weeps in rusting greens. The soul, now starved, begins to ache, For whispered winds and a still, deep lake. For hands that hold, not just reply— For truths that live, not just apply. Oh, modern man, with wires fed, Where lies your heart, and where your thread? Unplug your thoughts, and raise your eyes— The real world still beneath you lies.