By a heap of waste
He was a common sight.
By that road, sure
He was a common appearance.
In presentations he was mad
In moods he was not sad.
There, he stood in silence,
There, he represented a wave of broken lines.
Rain or shine,
There, he was often seen.
He would light a fire,
He would by it sit in vacant air.
What were his thoughts?
What were his inner fights?
What was his purpose on earth?
Wasn’t it after all tears and mirth?
In a big way he served mankind,
In my analysis I am not blind.
When we dumped waste within and without,
He burnt them to mark a golden spot.
That was his life,
That was his endless strife.
No life is without a purpose,
Each is a fruit full of taste.
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