Each Day

Each night this man unfolds the bed linen
And mulls over the sorrows of the day.
Each night I have one hour with this here pen
And surely soon I will have found my way.
Each day the man goes to work for his pay
And pointless mails to soulless men must send.
Each day again I must just long for May
And myself from these vicious thoughts defend.

Each day the man will think once more of May
And while away again this springtime day.