Grinding poverty at home, hence the world feels like
Black smoke. Sacks of money you carry upon your
Shoulder- yet the money is beyond your reach.
The night is desolate, danger lurks around every bend
Yet the Runner keeps on running. There is fear of
Robbers, and greater still the fear of sunrise!
Letters come in such great variety- people write
Out of amour, happiness, memories, longings
Out of sadness and grief. No one will ever read
The letter expressing his sorrow; the dreams of his
Life only the reeds under his feet will know.
In the villages and cities, no will ever know
Of his heartbreaks; in the black envelope of the night
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