Sweeper

I touched that has not known touch,
the cold door squeaked to give way,
the doomed room I survey,
dust in my nostril made me lurch;

dirt collected since time unknown,
bad odor got to the skin and bone,
I shrank from the stinking room,
in despair laid down my broom;

to this day I never cursed fate,
that made the ignominious sweeper,
but instead felt truly great,
to clean the world of dirt and despair;

many a valiant tried to clean it,
dirt still got accumulated,
by their efforts stimulated,
I came but lost hope and wit;

there was some evil shapeless,
but this room was hopeless,
got a bent back sweeping all day long,
can feel something deeply wrong;

cold souls dump their waste,
a curse I should taste,
easy to fight an enemy known,
but how to fight the unknown;

fought waste when none liked its taste,
waste is all I am, I shall soon waste,
then someone else shall sweep,
but not a soul will weep.

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