A lonesome vagabond

Whistled away through his life-

Through autumn, summer and the cruel cold.

He lived a life, so kind, so benign, 

Myriad pathways he could've chosen.

Pathways adorned with petals of roses,

But a bed of roses would've given him no thrill 

Through summer fever and winter chills.

Today he lies in moth-devoured drapes,

At the edge of the very road that grazed the soles of his slippers.

But where is the bliss in living safe 

When firewalking lures the valorous?

 

Shifa