the street raconteur

they walk under the cloak of darkness. nourishing their frailing bodies with deep breathe of sweet grease. but no matter how they extend their arms to every shadow that passes infront, it seemed like they still remain invisible from them.

source

everyday i see these three vagabonds infront of an abandon ruin, either sitting beside time or sleeping their hunger away. but despite their silence, i still hear their tragic stories. i feel the turmoils of every single drop of pity they receive. despite being the only true raconteur of this fast and apathetic realm. painting life with their pungent scent and mixing the remaining flavors of humanity.

but when all the sufferings could no longer be hold and the only thing left was hopelessness, someone finally heed their plead. tears began to fall, carrying the promise of cleansing the grime of human selfishness. it was so abrupt that no one even thought of building an arc. as if nothing was really meant to survive.

source

then suddenly, after the indolences and differences were washed away, everyone started claiming their were them. they started mimicing the same melancholic rhythms with their own tales, begging for the same appeals and stretching the same arms. nonetheless, they were heard.

source

at last, everyone heard their stories; discovered and showed what care is all about. now they could finally say that their tale already reached its final page.

but yesterday, three weeks after the catastrophe, i passed by the same ruins and noticed it empty. i wondered, where they are? where they have been at the time when everyone has no place to go, even in the ruins? if the slightest care even reached them? or if after everything that happened, they simply left, still without other people noticing them.

source

in memory of those, whose names were not known.