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Jan 2017
Six strings fell from his fingers behind the Café Miel
He sang French ballads and smoked by the church bell
The gospel choir left and gave him a penny each
Each one a blessing towards redemption out of reach
The coffee-drinking couple kissed and passed him by
Both gave a look but neither looked him in the eye

He slept on rocks and was kept warm by the news
He dreamt of silk and of oceans painted blue
He begged for life and thought entirely of death
He gave his soul to love and music was his breath
He searched for purpose until the final day of rest
He was buried by the wind that carries his songs to the West
Jordan Rowan
Written by
Jordan Rowan
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