Craftsmen of Automata

You have your studio, I have mine

In this well-lit bedroom of afternoon sun

A factory open all day, all night

Of paper-works and electronic handicrafts.

We are Daedalus building our labyrinths

In a world which can never get enough

Of poems like this and paintings like that

Among the millions of artworks waiting for sight

In a world decaying in an endless half-life

We make through the day with making daylights

For people trapped in maze-like reality

Crafting their wings to fly to the sun.