the sad old man
Sits by the dying embers
Sadly he inspects the flickers
For clues but finds none
He stirs up the ash
Trying to divine
From the patterns of dust
clues but finds none.
The young man
Slowly grows old
But his corn field
Is barely enough to
Pay for his sweat
And little is left over for his donkey
Though his effort has been
Strung out from day to day
The rich man is dying
On his water bed
But his gold won’t follow him
And the rats and skulls
Now no longer afraid
Are nibbling at his toes
And fitting out his robes
As the night comes to
The eyes that flashed green
The sad old man
Can read how the pebbles fall
And he can see the long queue
Of ghouls demanding settlement
Of blood covered by the rich man’s robe
The spirit of young men denied rest
Some day he will call the young man
And tell him his father was rich
But his oath was bloody.
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