A Piece Of Newspaper

Ordinary men have no worth. There is no value of ordinary people! Like insects they are born in slums, Their breath, intolerably bad smells, they feed on wastes, but germs and viruses both tremble and are afraid of them. Then how ordinary people die? If you don't know, listen to me, this is the world of might, life is a story of oppression, whenever the insects suffocate they come out of the gutter. Only fresh air and clean food they dream, their dream is not of the maiden fairies. And then the Angel of death comes, kneads the insects with his shoes, brings a piece of newspaper while the insect is half alive, from this piece he picks up it and puts it in the dustbin. Alas! He could not see. My Lord, forgive him, On the piece of the newspaper Your name was printed on the top!