And what is left to count is ashes <br />And remnants of our alienation; <br />Some strange sorrows that had crept <br />Into our hearts like vile damnation; <br />Words wonder into a strange distance <br />Remembering divine assistance, <br />Remembering courtships and support <br />From days of cradle to days of death, <br />From days of mirth to wastes of breath, <br />The path that leads us to this court. <br />The skylights, illuminating space, <br />Are witnesses to our disgrace. <br />The weak men and the strong alike, <br />Together hand in hand, <br />Join the sad procession <br />Of those who are left to stand. <br />Vivid numbers, blinking eyes, <br />Trying hard to count the days. <br />How many left to count the ways <br />A man can slip when in vain he tries <br />To get the best of what he pays? <br />Poets in the crimson sunset, <br />Losers in a dead-end street, <br />You have no fiber to withstand <br />What it takes when these two meet: <br />The counter and his count <br />Together well amount <br />To a handful swept off their feet. <br /> <br />And so we, proud beggars, heirs to our fate, <br />Decline to account for our shares of love and hate, <br />Respectfully abiding to the Law that says <br />That each man, woman and child counts the days. <br />Strolling down the alleys of Illusion and Greed, <br />Meeting Death who teaches us of our deepest need. <br />Death is wise, we'll understand, consider it afresh, <br />Learning baby steps as we walk the path of all flesh.<br /><br />Ishan Chaitanya<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/counting-the-days-2/
