The Man Died

He lies a mangled heap of naked shame
dead to nagging worries, thoughts and sorrow
a worn dusty dress clings to his lean marrows
silent he lies in a noisy street with no name

All his lofty dreams and achievements
lie quietly with him in his undug grave
all his prayers and high hopes none can save
mute the too heap a colossal embarrassment

The joy of an only male child is still
the cheer of giddy success is silent
tears from sobbing hearts are absent
only a crowd of sober vultures at his heels

Curious feet walk briskly away from him
who once lived, loved and sinned like many
who now heedlessly lies without a penny
facing a shy sky who turns away dim

He remains a terrible sight of cold shame
putrid morning, a cynosure of attention
crowds salute hand over nostrils in petition
to our commanding John Doe with no name

A corpse of our national soul lies
dead in the centre of our patriotic eyes