A Poor Man
It was a festival, like any festival actually. The sunshine was dazzling, the music deafening, and the people teasing each other. Almost everywhere were those who had relieved them selves from the routine work, expecting for a new start.
Except one a small man, whose age was hard to tell. He was huddled up in the corner, a few metres from the happy holiday crowds who were hurrying to and from. He was covered in a piece of pale blue cloth. For quite a long time, he was still with out even a slight motion, nor did he make any gestures. Begging for money? Or weeping over his misfortune?
Neither. He was just sitting there, alone and silent. His hair was grey, much like the withered grass, fluttering on a frosted autumn morning. A bird might well have perched on his head for such a cozy nest, if it were not so dirty. His face was pale and twisted. The nose and the mouth were squeezed to one side.
His eyes were frosted, looking inward like the windows of a snowbound cottage. Was he blind? Sometimes, he moved his mouth, murmuring as if to say something. But who cared to listen, on so brilliant and joyful a day?
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