Loading a dishwasher with plates,
Hanging shirts on a rope,
I do my best to appear relaxed
Mourning my secret hope.

A cleaning lady comes once a week,
The place stays neat for a day.
Returning from work I absently seek
To straighten the disarray.

In fifty years or hundred at most
Robots will do all the chores,
Cleaning and cooking for their host,
Preserving his time and force.

I can’t partake from the future fruit
No matter how much I strive.
I load the dishes and cook the food
And bury my dream alive.