At noon, one day,
He rose and went away,
With a handful shovel
To bury sorrows in a well
Days flew past, quick,
Like death on a body, weak,
From the ravages of disease
But sorrows don’t die with ease
He swung his sharpened sword,
Slashed sorrow in the head, yet a wad,
A wad of cash gushed blood
From the severe wounds
Day after day, head paining
From the numerous battles
Some when it was raining
Celebrating nothing, he lifted bottles
No comments:
Post a Comment