Everyone's got a story   Too sordid to tell.   Drifting down esplanades,   Summer monsoon swells.      He believes in the afterlife,   Angels ring in his head.   An eldest frame and a Lenin suit,   Angels fly in his head.      We were gone in the afternoon,   He left a note on the door.   Yellow fever burial ground,   Salvation, your reward.      Make the stone encourage him,   He speaks not what is right.   Without hope or family,   A solemn way to die.