There's bread at your table. Your children
are the joy of your home.
Early is the world awake in your eyes,
your day you enter good-willed.

Yet something tortures you at late nights;
and the bed is soft, the children - sound.
You fall asleep athought
that there's something still you didn't do...

That thought is always there when you wake up,
and strenuous your road is moving.
Your shoulders weighing heavier still,
the thing you're looking for is drawing nearer.

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