Some days

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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