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.

No 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.