In this world of endless longing and strife,
A man's desires know no bounds, no end of life.
Two yards of land, a mere fraction of space,
Yet a dream that drives him, a goal to embrace.

In this world of limitless desire,
Just two yards of land we do require,
But alas, 'tis only after death,
We find our final resting breath.

The shroud, a symbol of our fate,
Two yards of cloth, a narrow state,
Yet in life, we chase our dreams,
And hope our desires are fulfilled.

But why, oh why, is the world this way?
Why must we toil and struggle day by day?
Why do we crave and yearn and strive?
Is it not enough to live and thrive?

But alas, our desires are insatiable,
We hunger for more, we are unstoppable,
And so we toil and struggle on,
Until our final breath is gone.

In this land of two yards deep,
A simple thing, yet some secrets keep.
A shroud of two yards profound,
Conceals the truth, and mysteries unbound.

Two yards of sheet, is such a modest shroud,
Wrapped 'round our dear departed now,
A final farewell, a final rest,
Before the earth shall claim our chest.

The grave, a silent, hollow space,
Awaiting all who come and go,
A reminder of our fleeting grace,
And the finite nature of our glow.

But why, oh why, is the world this way?
A question that echoes, night and day.
Why must we struggle, why must we strive?
For even two yards of land, we must arrive.

The answer lies within, a truth we must find,
For the world outside reflects the world we find.
If this is the world, then why is it so?
A riddle that haunts, a mystery to know.

If the world is as it seems,
A place of plenty, a place of dreams,
Then why do we struggle and strive,
With so little, we must survive?

If this is the world we live in,
A world of plenty, a world of sin,
Then why do we cry and bleed,
Under the weight of our needs?

If this is the life we lead,
A life of want, a life of greed,
Then why do we search,crave and seek,
For more, for more, for more to need?

And in this world of plenty, where wealth abounds,
We search & seek for meaning, never finding a sound,
Even with new lands, new shroud & skies so bright,
There's still no trace of the new human sight.

Our desires, they know no bounds, it's true,
We crave for more, but what's the clue,
In this endless chase, we're lost and astray,
Our souls, they wither, day by day.

We cling to things that bring us pride,
But true fulfillment, we can't find inside,
For in our hearts, a void resides,
A longing for something more than pride.

Even if we gain new land to roam,
There's a new shroud to hide, a new sky to call home.
But amidst the change, a question we must pose,
Where is the new human being, with a heart that glows?

In this land of two yards, we search and strive,
For answers to our questions, and a sense of life.
But like the shroud, our answers are but a veil,
Hiding the truth, and leaving us with a tale.

Thus even with new lands and skies so blue,
We're left with nothing, but a hollow "woe is me",
For in our quest for more, we've lost our way,
And the true meaning of life, we cannot stay.

Even with these two yards of land, a space to call one's own,
After two yards of the shroud, where life has grown cold as stone.
If this is the world, then why is the world like this, a stage of suffering & pain,
Where even the smallest of joys are hard to obtain, and love's in vain.

If this is what happens, then why does this happen, a cycle of strife,
Where even the bravest of hearts are tested, and life's a constant jive.
Even two yards of land is needed, a place to stand and be free,
After two yards of this shroud, where the weight of life's burdens be.

As even in death, we crave more,
Two yards of land, a simple wish,
A place to lay our weary head,
And dream of all we've left undone.

The shroud, is a symbol of our desperate plight,
A reminder of cessation of our mortal coil,
Yet even in death, we take flight,
In our imagination, & our toil.

But still we search for answers, for a glimmer of hope to abide,
For a world where love and peace can thrive, and hearts can safely reside.
If this is the world, then why is the world like this, a place of despair,
Where even the smallest of joys are hard to find, and love's a distant prayer.

And still we hold on to hope, to the light that shines so bright,
For a world where even two yards of land is enough, and life's a beautiful sight.
Even two yards of land is needed, a place to call one's own,
After two yards of the shroud, where life has grown cold as stone.

On two yards of land, so still and so grey,
Two yards of the shroud, that life has gone astray.
Where once the sun shone bright, now cold as stone,
Still a place to call one's own, though life has been overthrown.

In a world of concrete and steel,
Where progress is the only zeal,
Two yards of land, a fleeting dream,
A place to call one's own, a final scheme.

The world is cold, a stone-like heart,
Where life is but a distant part,
A place to call one's own, a distant dream,
The yard of stone, a lonely scream.

Why is the world like this, oh why,
If this is what happens, why does it lie,
In the name of progress, we deny,
The simple pleasures of the eye.

Why is the world, in this state of decay,
If this is what we've made, why must we stray?
Why must the beauty, of life be lost and grey,
And all we're left with, is a world in disarray?

If this is what happens, then why does it be?
A cycle of pain, a sea of misery.
Two yards of land, a dream so pure and true,
Yet elusive as the wind, as fleeting as dew.

But still we dream, still we strive and aspire,
For in that dream, we find our heart's desire.
For two yards of land & shroud, a symbol of hope,
A beacon of light, in this dark and hopeless scope.

In just two yards of land, all equally find a space,
Two yards of shroud, where life has lost its pace.
A place to call one's own, where we can be free,
From the world's noise, and its chaos, and its misery.

But why is the world like this, if this is what we see,
A place to call one's own, where we can be free?
Why do we struggle, and why do we fight?
Is it not enough, to have a place to call one's own tonight?

And yet, in death, we find peace,
Two yards of land, our final release,
A place to rest, a place to lay,
Our weary heads, and end our day.

The yard of stone, a place for our souls to finally rest,
A refuge from all the world's unrest,
A place to call one's own, a final nest,
The world may be cold, but here, we find peace at best.

Thus let us cherish every moment,
And make the most of our short time,
For even two yards of land is precious,
In the grand tapestry of rhyme.

So let's cosset this life, each moment we share,
And cherish death, when it does come our way,
For in the end, it's not the land we own,
But the love we give, that makes us known.

© Aneemkp