A tear wets my knee. And another. Is the number 32.
Third stop of the journey. As always, I sat by the door. Just look at the floor. A lot of feet clad in shoes, slippers, sandals and boots, eagerly await that it opens to get off the train.
front of me, a white Reebok, yellow socks, and sweatpants. Another tear.
The door opens. The feet move. Suddenly, a role in my leg. I look at the travelers who have fallen. I guess the paper is that boy, who comes down the stairs without looking back. But just suppose, because before I have not seen his face. Under the gaze
again. There's the piece of paper, folded in half. I open it. There is something written:
"There is no harder image, sad and beautiful, that of a wounded angel hidden in the crowd."
.
0 comments:
Post a Comment