A few dried leaves
He makes a fire.

The fire in him
All his dreams
Cinders now!

Twigs of wood
A small spark
Is all he need.

For breathes the belly
He must feed!

The past is dim
Nay the past is blank
All left is now.

When the fire burns out
Ashes will fly!

He makes daily
A meal measly
With deadwood.

When is next
He doesn’t brood!

A roadside meek
Lives on pick
Yet don’t die.

When the fire burns out
Ashes will fly!

None bothers his fate
High up they wait
For him to die.

*When his fire burns out
Vultures will fly!