Dried Leaves And A Spark

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!