The people of this coffee-shop, on top of their folded
newspapers, they speak, with envy in their eyes, of a man
who once went lost among the rose bushes.

A hero he was to them, an explorer. For they themselves knew
not where or how 'lost' is. In a city, well designed, such
poverty between these many walls, in names and in numbers
and in corners.

He was not a tall man, though his head was seen at last
above the shrubs. His eyes were ornaments in many a dream.
His low voice used to sing with the wind.

His absence was their revalation.
Their narrow minds followed his narrow footprints, with
sheer ignorance of the word 'Alone'.

And as they found him at last, lips still puckered for their
cups, in that garden of roses surrounded by stone.
Red thorns tell weeping of a man who once went lost among
the rose bushes.
But couldn't stay.