Once lived a man, wrinkled and old,

with a gentle smile and a heart made of gold.

Always worked hard, never complained,

an honest soul, the last that remained.

What good is a heart that's made of gold,

when the belly is hungry, and the body is cold?

What good is a soul that's full of grace,

when it holds no value, not in this place. 

He tried to buy some bread with his grace,

was scolded and laughed right in his face.

He tried to buy some milk with compassion,

was beaten and told, that's not in their fashion.

He stands on a cliff, watching the lake,

tired of life, not expecting to wake.

This place is peaceful, with a beautiful sight,

he's prepared to embrace the frost of the night.

Frozen bones and a broken heart,

the last of goodness died last night.

Echoes of sorrow linger in the air,

life is short, and rarely is fair.

This world is losing all of its passion,

if there is no room for a man with compassion.

This world is losing all of its might,

when honor was lost in the darkness of night.

What good is this world, why should I stay,

when people with soul must fade away?

Borut Kaučič