Some days you have to do nothing,
Not even listen  president making,
Or iceberg breaking in distant seas,
Or mark bird absent on clothesline.

Some days you stop asking a death
Not to be proud, man’s god telling,
From red death bus chariot on road,
A body is cloth cast off for beggars.

Some days you do nothing by night.
When poems are all things of death
A girl’s cry is heard in a floor below
Carving out an existence from night.

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