A freezing cold night would it be
Or a warm, sunny day with light showers?
A rainy, windy dusk in autumn it rather be
Or a dry, torrid unpleasant hour?
The world won’t stop moving forward,
Nor will the ants stop at work.
Neither will the breeze stop flowing,
Nor will the butterfly’s flutter cause a jerk.
It will remain mundane as it always has been
No interesting times further, or prior.
Will there be a few clad in black
When the clock strikes its final hour?
Neither the existence nor the end of one
Will cause even a mild stir.
The tale of ignominy shall continue
From January to December.
Those few glorious moments neatly tucked in
Will evaporate from living memory.
“He was a jolly good fellow
Who spent his life in pointless drudgery”.
An earthy box or a few pieces of wood—
The final nail, the final prayer.
A pompous goodbye or a lively salute
Are nothing but very rare…
Not a choice of the day,
Nor a choice of the hour.
Neither a choice of place
Nor a choice of the manner.
No prerogative of any kind would you get
Except the station that sees you last.
Unless you rely on destiny,
Your job is amply vast.
