It's too early in the morning
for me to use these swollen eyes,
Nothing good enough to rouse me
No motivation to arise.

With hours of work unfurling before me,
I'm in no rush to get them started,
And so I nestle in the blankets,
Empty-headed and heavy-hearted.

There is no room for life's enjoyment
In this warp of constant hurry,
All time is absorbed
in the sponge of employment,
in the pockets of stress
and whirlwinds of worry.

I exist for the sole delight of the wealthy,
To deepen their revelries in sin,
I am a greyhound chasing rabbits In a frantic race I'll never win.

I want to plant and eat the fruitage,
To build and then to occupy,
I long to toil for tangible reasons,
I am weary of hearing the years whizzing by.