The old man dances on the streets, plays the harmonica.
The old lady sits, stares, wonders if she lives to another day.
Today, they aren’t here in their spots
and us, the young ones move along their same old course.
We busy ourselves with figures and facts, the holy grail
of modern technology. The life and bustle,
the party and crowd we can’t do without.
In a box to climb and climb we could,
higher and higher, maybe we would reach the sky.
But only to discover it is an illusion of wallpaper-covered ceiling.
Where is my great life?
Where are my dreams come true?
And where are my die-hard fans?
What is real? Health? Money? Fame?
Is it true that I’m living in this world
and all I have to do is to polish the ladder all this while?
Woe upon me. Money fleets me.
And life insidiously repetitive.
Another day, another opportunity probably.
A new day arrives, but what exactly is new?
The old man croons, and the old lady cries,
today, they return.
For one more day and one more moment in their life,
they would thrive.
Still, they would have nil, and time would leave them all behind.