57 Words

With every fall of his foot a cloud of dust was puffed into teh air. It hung for a moment or two like hanging by strings and then settled.
Last of his kind.
No one spoke his language. Last of his stinking kind. A sharp pain struck him to the ground.
Death of a old world language.

note: This is only 57 words to get an idea started, I have completed the other bit of prose that is the completion of this and will post it later.