Prophecy of Man

My story is that of a wizened old man,
with only his gold panning pan.
A noble beggar, humbly tall he was,
forsooth, an ill-bred king he was.

From day to night, a loaf of bread,
meagre food before he was dead.
From day to night, an empty pan,
the river bays angrily at his hand.

Whilst frigid metal rings silently sing,
flimsy strings let slip precious things.
Dented tin and rips at the seams,
his pan is made up of lost dreams.

But there! Something gleams!

On his final day,
far from sandy bay,
he saw it in his stream.

And so,
a single flake,
of gold he did make,
before Death left her wake.