An old hobo lay there dying,
by the side of the road, crying.
His blueish lips managed to groan:
“Oh Lord, no man should die alone!”
I went over and held his hand.
He asked me: “Are you from this land?”
I said: “I’m here, I’m here to stay,
until your soul is on its way!”
Calm then, he added with a smile:
“Good, this shall only take a while.”
A short spell later he did leave,
with only me for him to grieve.
Sitting there his cold hand in mine,
I repeated to him his line,
on that dark road and on my own:
“No, friend, no man should die alone!”