a three-shot fellow and an odd-legged stance,
whisked into a buffering four-walled alleyway
where the sand dunes eat his
sore, sore feet
and the air too brittle
for his syllables to stand
    his sandpaper hair teetering
       on a brink of straying grey,
            here he stands.
unmoving, without love
             for his land.
the sky soar far, far up above
         the brisk blue sky
              or thundering reminiscence
              of an age gone too far
                    to hold,
growing old in a bare four-cornered alleyway
    where this old man
          once with fiery gaze in his eyes
                  and a spring in his feet
                        have built his home
                                 with walls too steep