The Director - English Poem - Poolabala

The director creates the characters

And drives them on the time line

Of ignorance to a secret destination

A long march into oblivion

From one dark cave to another.

Pain and tears, loss and fears

Are like deep gloomy craters

Some get tumbled into craters

Some can climb up, some cannot

They get stuck in the middle

But for sure both their end – the oblivion.

When the doubts and difficulties delay the march

Duty is the whip  the director cracks on the backs

Duty is the whip which everybody obeys

Some gets a lash some gets trash but one gets

his quota until he obeys.

When frisking and raving disturbs the march

He uses a piercing tool to create wounds

Insult and worry are the wounds that control

And quells the revelers and make them travelers.

He gives unlimited work and limited joy

A little happiness now and then to heal the wounds
Tomorrow is the greatest medicine

He pulls the characters with the rope of hope

Into the bright future – the oblivion