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Surge of a silence

In the middle of a wooden city

In the middle of a day

An old man

He has two hands

He has two clocks on the same wrist

He has two watches on the same wrist

He has two eyes

He could see two worlds out of two eyes

He has two lenses and a spectacle

He saw two worlds in one sight

He was coming from the past

He is living in the future

He had all his skin withered

He had all his skin rooted

He wore a white pearl bracelet

He wore a white cotton belt

That was hardly a belt

That was more or less a strand of cloth

He had an archaic radio on his hand

He held it up above his shoulders

As if he was the Promethus with the fire of truth

He played primitive songs to us, the crowd

Ghostly voices and heavenly chants

Both were plunging on our ears

We became muted and muted

We the crowd, We the market

He did not ask for money

He played his music

He wore a jaded white sandal

He walked swiftly across the lanes

We the crowd and our own market

We stood in front of him like a torn paper

Or may be like a maze for him

He was hardly interested in our discount rates

He was hardly moved by our festival season

He was hardly impressed by our bonanza

He was hardly standing by our shops

He was harder than the hardest of the diamonds

That we displayed in our glass houses