Work is not worship—they said.
It’s a punishment, full stop!—they said.
One that is to be smilingly borne.
Else you lose your job.
And so lose everything else too. …
Hmmm… I said. … I was confused.
Work is enjoyment, actually. … I then discovered.
I told them.
They didn’t believe.
Not when I said it.
Not because they ceased believing in me.
It’s just that. They. Simply. Didn’t. Believe. In. It.
And they professed to believe in
a lot of things that never did make
any sense to themselves.
They said so.
And it was so.
A long many years have passed by, since then.
Now, whether they believe in it or not,
I have come to believe in this gem:
Work is punishment—full stop.
That’s the principle on the basis of which I am henceforth going to operate.
And yes! This still is a poem alright?
[What do you think most poems written these days are like?]
It remains a poem.
And I am going to make money. A handsome amount of money.
For once in my life-time.
After all, one can make money and still also write poems.
That’s what they say.
Or do science. Real science. Physics. Even physics for that matter.
Or, work. Real work, too.
It’s better than having no money and…