The best gift of man is himself,
Even the worst of all in him can attest to this.
Still he wonders in his wandering path dreaded,
With the yonder its blunders trailed.
And all the struggle along its hustle
Bears so little a fortune snorted with a grumble.
Yet in faith he wails for daily bread,
As he tills in vain in the scorching sun
Neither lamenting or either harvesting.
The rewards that seem to last without fun.
But harder he strives without batting an eye,
He gathers with smiles the profit at last.
Who dares to ruin his spoils,
When in anguish he toiled with frowns.
Yet one comes to light his fury,
As he steals what he gathered in a hurry;
Without begging or asking so meekly,
He fights the thief without thinking clearly.
And like a joke or so it seems,
Or like a dream that became real.
The thief became the conqueror,
The victim sadly the vanquished.
All was saved in his home,
Except his body which was still.
Who can save him though he’s dead,
For he alone was born to earth;
And an Orphan that shocked his friends,
No one to tell, no grave to spare.
A news for who to tell though not good to share,
A kin not found in this strange lonely world.