The Days of Man

Clear days are rare in the mind of man.

Though we all think alike, we only disagree in spite.

Whether darkish grey or lightish white. The sun no longer shown so bright.

The mind is but a crystal globe, but never full and clearly shown.

A ball to close you deepest thoughts, for memories to keep till sought.

Warm days are rare in the heart of man.

But all of love the same, we only disagree in vain.

To fight the hot, and fight the cold.

A battle fought since days of old.

The heart is but a wooden box, tightly closed from pain and tox’.

The tox that rots and ruins life, so fight if off with all your might.

Perfect days are rare in the life on man, so I keep the globe and box at hand.