A fallen sun is forlorn, scared, and stiff beside the woof,
Begging his weeping mother for a roof,
He must seek out goblets to place in the bay,
To find the buyer who takes the case away.
He knows the danger and pulls his haze,
To step through the shadows of dark alleys and maze.
He walks ahead just to stay alive,
To find a small place where a soul might thrive.
The rich keep their roses up on the high hill,
While the poor watch the shadows grow bitter and chill.
Far from the echoes where horses run fast,
He spends every day in a failed, heavy cast.
He blows in the wind like a string in the air,
Hoping to live with a brave, noble flair.
His life slips away like the grass on the hill,
A quiet routine that is common and still.
No one steps forward to quiet his pain,
Or bring him a light through the cold, driving rain