The mist in the distance has already subsided: The insects retreat too , – the stream is lonely and serene. The black boat floats, in lonely vigour. Before our eyes a boundless wall of red Shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain! Then a slow-gathering darkness overhead, O vision of my city, Yesterday you lay anew, Tomorrow you’ll be dusty, Ever at the end of your road, Meet me there then, the hour of dying
GPT-3 was fed with three poems, by Indian poet Jibanananda Das, and the outcome was an underwhelming pouring of words, which may seem like poetry, but lacks the deep sentience needed to understand the historical contexts, the human, natural and animal conditions, the complexity of existence and its manifestation in emotional expressions. These generative words may look like poems, but they lack the warmth, the melancholia, and the helplessness of being.