Shuffling cold down the grey Main Street,
To collect meager pension on old sore feet,
Raindrops on lined unshaved grizzled cheek,
From few pitiful pennies, a life he tries to eke.
Once he had a beautiful wife and a lovely home,
And children too, son and daughter to call his own,
His wife now beneath the earth´s mantle of death,
His heirs ambitiously absorbed by city´s cold breath.
Friends dissipated together with his working life,
The silence in his hovel he can cut with a knife,
The hollow echoing in his confused ageing mind,
Makes it hard in this world, for him to seek & find.
In his old grey days of fumbling & dreams sublime,
He finds no purpose, no reason nor logical rhyme,
And in his ancient silence of long-days & wasted time,
He walks in death´s footsteps, leaving footprints divine.
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