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At the End of the Day



The newspaper boy bring in paper every day
All he does in the world is to hand out paper each day
He lives on the paper; until one day he told me about his mother
His ailing mother needed medicine and he needed an advance payment
How would I know when all I know is all the bloody newspapers only?
Ever he disappears just after he hurls the paper at my door
His life is two minutes old a day;
When I go out to the general store to buy bread
I always see the storekeeper’s eyes quickly fixed
He got things to sell and he got money to count
The store is a universe
I don’t know if he has an ailing parent
And ever he disappears when I leave the store
His life is five minutes old a day;
And it is so scarce to see the wise folks
I wonder how old are the doctors and engineers a day
People are writing their stories
And it will be no surprise for the wise men
If they write their stories in blood
From a fool how they had to give up foolishness
Just because his family demands, his friends demand
The society demands too much from them;
Respectable people live in fluctuating seconds
With an amount of time in stock
Just when they do good perhaps they can raise
It’s perfectly right everybody’s got an agenda
The scribes write, of others, the stories in a bundle of papers
The lawpeople measure the justice balance like it is perfect
The soldiers guard the border—that’s where a motherland ends
The blacksmiths are unclear with sounds coming from hammering metals
The singers sing for minor hearts and major souls
And me, I take extra pain as if my birth heralded the universe
In all the work there is no calculation for the lived time
Only death will tell with precision
For it sees no separation: animals as animals
See the commotion trying to get a meaning out of commotion
It is pitiable indeed.

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