And the Man Died

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.