Passing everyday through the plains,
I see a old man sitting,
Over the bench he sits,
With a stick in his hand and a ball on the other.
Know not what he thinks,
may be of some tragedy or may be some good memories.
A moment he sings, a moment he cries.
A moment he laughs thinking something nice.
And what's that ball for?
Is that his chilhood memory?
Or is it some history?
He speaks not a thing,
He greet not any being.
Moment later he rises up,
And in his pocket the ball he keeps,
Walking through the solitary road,
He vanishes like a lonely ship.
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