It’s marked in the new calendar hanging on your wall.
The new white calendar, carrying in its belly, smell of the old printing machine,
Commanding you to get into the solid black boundaries
Of its multiple boxes…
It has planned it all for you…a day to cry, a day to laugh, a day to feast,
A day to pray, a day to remember a friend, a day to slice a cake, a day to fight, a day to meet, a day to pretend.
It’s all planned…
You too can enjoy the game…
Pretend to plan, pretend to arrange, pretend being your own master, pretend to change.
You move on from place to place, searching for the right box to rest…
It just hangs there…blinking from the wall…
The chequered body smiling at you,
It watches you in the trap…your box…my box…it has got us all…
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