Days end with stale evenings
When people drink blood with crackers;
And clinking of glasses
Tries to replicate real laughter.
Everyone present is lost in past
But ‘”good old days” are just a myth,
Scattered with miserable and diseases
And the stigma of unemployment
There is no youth left
And the search for fountain is lost too.
There is no certainty except that-
Days end with stale evenings.