clad in a grey native **** cloth
he sat,quivering on a stool
with a aged breast on furrows breath,
that shook the folds of his shoulders

Now and then does he seems to gasp
about a menlancholys spit,
but amis his grey eye lashes
it pierce through what words cannot paint

He folds his feet and *** his head
like a lizard amist a bait,
but his vague stare hold a mist
which mystries cant be shook from him

What ails him so, the world wont ask,
but lost to what all eyes cant see
it lingers through the heart of man
that trode the earth with guns and roses

He breath in and expires in lort,
his thought search for truth in his heart,
he bow his head and close his eye
and found no peace,even as he sleeps

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