Now, in the deepest recesses of despair,
Crushed beneath the weight of ceaseless toil,
He finds his existence fraying at the edges—
Living alongside his wife, a slow madness creeping.
He folds his clothes in absent-minded haste,
As the days pass in the mournful wail of children he has raised.

He collects his coins,
Each one clinking softly in a mind adrift,
Lost to the nuances of an ancient game of strategy,
To bridge the chasm of distance between them.
Yet, bound by the monotony of his government post,
A nameless cog in the machine,
No one recalls his face,
He remains a shadow, invisible to fame or fortune.

Sundays are consecrated for worship,
But his soul drifts aimlessly on a fragile vessel,
The stillness of the water reflecting his solitude,
Stopping only to rest in a quiet cove, where mountains loom,
Is it not vanity to bask in happiness when it’s fleeting?

What men or gods pursue such madness?
Those who seek splendour in lofty towers,
Cloaked in wealth too vast to ever dissolve,
Chasing fleeting adoration on glittering stages,
Crafting dreams of immortality.
To hold health as a prize greater than life itself—
Yet, at the end, he slips away at 86,
Leaving no mark upon the world.
Not once did he question the path he walked.
In the end, common was all that he ever was.