On the way to help a poor man,
Are the ways you\'d remember your grieving soul.
On the same sizzling sand that made your feet dance,
Now make you run away in hopes of fleeting purpose.
A man of no title—a man of nothing,
Becomes a mere ghost when forgotten.
Digging up the feedings from the past—
Ghost villages enforced by no man.
No man but you:
The Grieving Soul.