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He woke in the chilling morn of Monday
Standing tall and stretching like a snake
His son lay carelessly on the old ragged mat
Innocence envelops him like a clean blanket
Unnoticed, he trudged past his dear son
Gathering implements crude and shabby too

He jumped without delay on his old motorbike
Rolling it away from the thatched roof hut
That the engine shrilling noise may not spread
Like the wheezing cry of the morning wind
Through the windows of many blocked houses
That never was heard in his old derelict hut

Wearing many tattered shirts, he zoomed off
Into the thick dark bush that stood just ahead
The speed was great and the rain drizzles
Drenching him thorough to his very soul
His arms shiver as they held the motorbike
Unsteady he rode on, into the forest

Before him lie, a thunder-stricken tree
Crossing the road that leads to the farm
Head on collision, the bike tumbled 
He lay on the wet ground, without a help
It was still dawn and none around
He writhes in pain and with tears-filled eyes

Blood in his eyes, one thought filled his mind
His son at home, an innocent in this world
He wished he lived a better life than his
He struggled to survive death’s strong grip
Squeezing strongly the last of his breath
With tears in his eyes, the man died.

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