At the Close

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.