***

The night,
I’m walking.
I do walk.
The cigarette I smoke
Is getting shorter.
My steps are slowing,
So I’ve thought
About giving up this walking.
And only passersby are ones
Who show me that it goes-
The process of my moving on.
They tell me;
Buildings, cars, in-front-the-shop:
‘You have, we have to go’.
But I am tired,
Tired I am
Of smoking, walking, moving on,
Of pumping smoke throughout my lungs…
Seems, tired I was born.
And started not with purpose,
But by chance,
So after that I must, indeed,
Buy cigarettes,
For free which no one gets
And even it destroys,
We are to get it.
Because if once you’ve had,
Along- you do not have a choice.
And I am tired,
Tired I am
Of smoking, walking, moving on.
It’s better step into the coffin
Once,
Than slowly breathe into its maddening odor.