‘twas silent but the squeaking of the old fan,
Ancient but moving, spinning as it is asked to,
Never changing, never ending.
Perhaps that’s my fate, spinning about in a circle,
Round and round, endlessly, never changing but my age,
In a never ending spiral of life.
But perhaps it’s not so bad, devoting oneself to the task
they love,
like an old fan.
Never stopping, never giving in to the old age,
Spinning continuously day and night.
And whilst occasionally, someone may flick its switch
Driving it to stop and rest,
For days, maybe weeks, or even years,
Undoubtedly, when its switch is turned back on,
The devotion would still be there
With the same amount of vigor as it was stopped before.
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