In bundles
And overloaded sacks
And like fully-filled libraries
In hordes the stories stack up
Whilst all along I had presumed
Otherwise. Singly.

The workers tread
Each step studs with several stories
Pain and pleasure are just the supplements
Their weary eyes tell
Their faces show; at the end
It is the meal, waiting home

The masters make dissimilar moves
Albeit blanketed with riches
Only the narration changes
Of more things relatively good
Of more meanings seemingly smeared
When only death gives the final touch

Between them the billions
Of the billions
In some scientific obscure numbers
The stories mix, match, remain
Fade, blur, clear, show, omit;  

I can only ask a part of your fragmented story.
Only a part
Apart from what I have heard,
On the ground of companionship.



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