Divided by a glass paned window;
On one side trickle the drops of grief,
On the other do that of labour.
Entrapped, am I, in a gilded cage,
Cordoned off from myself and mine;
And there you are, you modern sage,
Quagmired in thoughts not of this world.
You toil hard in the ruthless sheen
Of that bright star which shines forth;
And all I do is languish, reek,
Perched on a throne, unrightfully owned.
You have three stomachs to feed and guard,
And someone to call your own;
While all I have is a silhouetted ghost,
Of ties severed, forever to be sore.
So much have I lost, so less, achieved,
The wreckage of the bygones being my legacy,
Where once was a tree, well-flourishing, lush,
Is jetzt a grave
of unsprouted seeds.
Oh, great one, somewhere up above,
In your elevated, exalted abode;
Rid me of my malaise, once and for all,
And give to me what this homeless belongs.
On the other side of this wretched glass sheet,
He toils and digs and proves his worth,
Undeterred by the world, sporting a rag,
a perspiring temple and a content visage.
