Poetry, a
unity of words in flight,
A canvas of
emotions, colors so bright,
But meanings
get lost when tongues intertwine,
In
translation's clasp essence may decline.
In
unfamiliar scripts, may falter, lie low,
Nuances whispering
in the poet's tongue,
Transformed
in translation, like songs left unsung.
In translations, new stories may enhance,
For languages mix, cultures enrich,
A harmony woven in words so bewitch.
In
translations, new worlds of verse are unbound.
In modern times, a meal is born,
A flavor quest, that none could scorn.
Lay’s Kettle Cooked, with taste and bite,
Potato chips, the main delight.
Chicken, sliced thin, a ready base,
To join the flavor quest, with grace.
Eggs and water, a combo stirred,
Egg-wash made, as hopes were spurred.
Flour and cornstarch, seasonings mixed,
Salt and pepper, darkness fixed.
Paprika’s flare, a fiery note,
Seasoned flour, a shield of dote.
Crushed Lay’s chips, a pile of treasure,
In shallow tray, they lie with pleasure.
Chicken, seasoned, dusted light,
Dipped in egg, like morning’s bright.
Excess falls, a moment still,
Chip embrace, a worthy thrill.
Gently pressed, to bond with love,
Warrior’s armor, a crispy glove.
Sheet tray beckons, foil’s wrap,
Crusted soldiers, in cozy nap.
Oven’s rage, a challenge fierce,
Twenty turns, a deed to pierce.
Flipped with ease, among the fire,
Cooking dance, a skillful choir.
Crunchy coat, a sound of joy,
Chips intact, on chicken’s ploy.
Lay’s Crusted Chicken, splendid show,
Comes out strong, from oven’s glow.
Toasted bun, a place of fame,
Mayo’s spread, a royal name.
Pickles hop, with zesty charm,
Lettuce lends, a greeny arm.
Tomato’s slice, a beauty fine,
A meal done, beyond sublime.
So grab a bite, ye hungry folk,
As epic flavors make you stoke.
Lay’s Kettle Cooked, a legend spun,
A flavor quest, now begun.
The Last Wish
He had always wanted to see the stars. He had spent his life studying astronomy, gazing at the night sky, dreaming of traveling to space. But he was born too late. The world was dying, and so was he. He had a terminal illness, and no hope of a cure.
He decided to spend his last days in a remote cabin, away from the chaos and despair. He brought his telescope with him, hoping to catch a glimpse of the celestial beauty before he passed away.
But the sky was always cloudy. He never saw a single star.
He died alone, with one wish unfulfilled.
Lost in Translation's Veil Poetry, a unity of words in flight, A canvas of emotions, colors so bright, But meanings get lost when to...
