The fan turned on and on.
It didn’t care for the bastards
Who came under to enjoy the wind.
There’s nothing suicidal like
Caring those came to relax beneath it.
Unable to stop the rotation in between,
Body and head competed each other,
Might become a strange fate of the circling.
How funny it would be,
To turn on and on
Without longing for life,
Or seeking assets or addresses.
Yet the fan
Didn’t think of that.
The fan knew it well ahead
It would be thoughtless
To waste the time thinking things.
Fan is a strong
Icon of abandon ness.
It makes the whole truth
Of men and objects