A spectral nomad,

rambles anonymously, noiselessly,



Only rustle comes from the grass under his body.

A lonely one doesn't hurry.


The single shoes in his hand are broken.

The foot his mere login.


In a black mind there's no sound any kind.

The time is meaningless,

dead deadline of happiness.


Why the prayers never heard?

Why am I dead to the world?”


The first rays of the dawn dances on the wall.

In anticipation of settling down,

one moves restlessly around.


Unaware both of his emotions

and motions,

untill awakening to the song of the birds;

the current circumstance a tiny lairs.