In the grip of tired, unpainted dawn, Paul, age fifty, trudges on the land, Where refuse whispers secrets to the morn, He bends, a weary steward of the sand. Faces lifeless, torn by shards of time, His heart a clock that ticks in grim accord, A symphony of rust and grime, Where he finds no harmony or chord. Yet beneath the waste of countless days, A flicker of old dreams, caught by chance, Perhaps one day the sun will blaze, And in the shadows, Paul will dance.