A week
away from work makes people weep
For
joy; two weeks will make them run so mad,
They'll
beg to work again. Warm nights they
sleep
Beneath
a sheet of silk, like old Sinbad,
Luxuriant,
a prince among the sheikhs
Of
Araby. Cold nights they sleep in spoons,
Him
front to back, her back to front; bed creaks,
Wind
howls; and then they dream of other moons,
The
yellow moon in desert skies, afloat
In
blackest night. But in the day they toil
From
dawn to dusk, though none might think to note
The blood
and sweat and tears they spend. To boil
It down:
we live in dreams, and once awake
We
die in dread of these the lives we make.
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