Stairs were moving up and he was treading down,
Audience were clapping their hands with laughter for this old clown.
Eyes weary, smile his companion, his moustache and the beard were brown.
Humiliating bullets manyatimes fired at him, he would take it without a frown.

In his room went he and locked himself inside,
Sat on the floor and opened a book that was beside.
Some pics of shattered houses while some of people on a roller-coaster ride,
His face which was used for creating expressions comic, tragic and at sometimes pride,
Now was so expressionless like the beach at high tide.

His heart bore too much to take more in it,
But vague just another friend of his helped to take in bit by bit.
Passion of his used as a sample for experiments taken on a slit,
Happiness was like somthing which didnt arive even in discreet.
And the tests of life, still he undertook, with full grit.

So the book contained nothing but his family memories,
In those was living his soul where he loosened all his worries,
Remembering the days when his daughter in her tiny hands offered him some berries,
But then these memories so silently he burries,
And these surreal moments he drinks off with perries.

Closing the book, finally he got up filled with sustain,
Cause fate was decided, and now, didnt matter, even a prickle of pain,
Opened the **** he passed through that smoky corridor again,
Going to the people to be a clown for them all that wid him which remains,
To spread smiles and laughters on faces of people hiding his own pain..
MH..