My man, he's weary.
Hard day's work ahead,
He's desolate, lonely
This meal, was an uncertainty
But today, fills the stomach
With strength, and foreboding;
For this maybe the last.
Meal done, he sits a while;
While his friends eat.
Friendship hasn't befriended them yet,
For when death is your neighbor,
There's no other house on the street.
Kinship born only by shared fate,
Brings them together to bicker and banter;
But ever so often,
Their common friend reigns - silence.
Born of dreary existence,
Fed on survival,
Souls know not love.
But a soul that's lost,
Still knows it's worth.
Other men pass by,
Seeing eyes, seeing beyond them.
How quick are we to judge,
The worth of things,
And our eyes,
Executing this judgement with perfection,
Glance over, glance across
And bind their path to our perception.
Time to work, here come the machines;
Big, strong, yellow!
These brown hands,
do they burn with the sun,
Or this yellow?
My man, he moves around the machine,
Kinship stronger than with mates,
For its rhythm is easier to judge without words interfering with this judgement.
The man and the machine,
Creating a beautiful landscape.
Both same in spirit.
Both unworthy of passing eyes.
The big yellow, the small brown,
Like the sun and the earth.
Humans aren't perfect,
And so a man, loses vision of the machine.
Uncontrolled, it cannot reign in its power.
Uncontrolled, it reaches out to it's friend.
Help - My man.
Help! Help my man!
I shout, but humans have stopped heeding me.
In the embrace of the machine,
He takes his last breath.
End in the arms of a friend,
He's now living with the neighbor.
A few moments, and my man is cleaned off.
The machine, fixed;
It's tears wiped.
Another man comes by,
A new friend.
What has the world come to?
Eternal life lies with the lifeless,
And my man, lies with me.
Did the man make the machine, for the machine to break the man?