sad reality

Grandmother clutched her phone, scrolling through verses she'd typed. Her wisdom, distilled into posts, garnered thousands of hearts. Like Avvaiyar's timeless words once did, her observations on life now reached strangers. The platform paid for engagement, transforming her kitchen wisdom into currency. Yet something felt hollow. Kannadasan once sang that true poetry moves souls, not metrics. She remembered reciting his lyrics to her granddaughter, watching understanding bloom in young eyes. That connection was priceless, unrewarded by algorithms. She closed the app and called her granddaughter over. Some wisdom, she realized, meant more shared over tea than broadcast to thousands.