When the world never stops whirling,
Why do I stare?
When the sun boils my bones,
Why do I not care?
When did the world give up?
Whiny women worry about wrinkles.
Widows wallow and weep for deacades willingly.
When did my population, my human race, my people let the wind was away their will?
And when did I realize that I am one of the few
Living not in this trend of new,
This trend of pathetic self-pity?
When did I wake up in the light of the sun
And look up
To see the disappearing stars that are so ever far away?
Why do I stare
When the world never stops whirling?
Why don’t I care
When the sun boils my bones?
I am living in the trend of old,
This trend of living.