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All in this life runs by planning –
Late to bed – and early getting
up, to work run, getting home.
Bathhouse at the Sunday’s morn.

TV, welcome, children, cold.
Forty years in this world
fled past, rushed past, as a file.
                               This is life.

Days inevitably flash past.
Hit the target. Missed the dart.
Run from fair. Dull’s the being.
There’s no morning, there’s no evening.
And the horses’ tired run.
                         Snow – no fun.

In the bustle and the whirling
thoughts of death come oftener, burning.
Feeling tired, hopes are slender.
What is left in the remainder?

Anxious sleep, and sometimes fever.
Heart. Lumbago. Headache. Liver.
Running farther – rise or fall.
                              Where’s the soul?

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