Work

There are days,
When we work,
And work much,
Without any rhyme
Or reason as such.

Too busy to be glad,
Too busy to be sad.
Moving from one thing,
One person, to the other,
Not knowing whether,
We loose or we gain.

All get mixed up,
All look the same,
Too far to future,
We can not see
No fruits of action in sight
We dig only in earnest right.

Friends and foes
Both forgiven and forgot.
Victory and Misery,
All relinquished.
Fame and defamation,
Cast aside like yesterday's flowers
From the body of temple deity.

Forward or backward,
We are not certain,
But we move,
And one this is certain,
We act, and We do,
We do it rather good.