overgrown with weeds and shrubs,
an old man strolls,
with nothing but a crooked walk stick,
to hold his stooping image,
drawn closer to the ground,
from year gone and years spent,
over seasons toiled and seasons moiled,
his feet all cracked,
from journeys taken around the world,
and not even the plastic sandals,
he wears,
can save him from the harshness,
of the earth,
on his back he carries a sack,
amateur stitched patches dons it,
a tale of hard times told,
and to his side walks his dog,
a companion he has had from way ago,
and together they march on,
in silent steps,
past the flowing waters beyond,
and over the hills afar,
to meet the setting sun..
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