Truth does not hide itself in the arms of Shame.
It would not have been the mistress over this world,
in which love and hatred are told apart by
the dull, crowded multitude.

She sits in the park.

She wants to remember neither her name nor where she came from.

A faded and stained coat covers the musty trousers.

On her knees holds she an old bag made of rugs.

She looks into it and laughs.

There are no treasures in this bag ... like youth or love..

She scratches her grey temples.

From time to time someone stops in front of her, but they listen to her with indifferent eyes.

She talks to the world through her existence.

Taking out of the bag a not completely emptied bottle of wine, she mutters that live is

laugh and dance.

In the bag therea are an old towel, a plastic bag, a pipe with ash

from burnt green gold, a few dirty crumpled dollar notes and a bundle of unimportant

keys.

She looks at the street mob that is contemporary with her.

She tipps the bottle.

She springs out of the bench and runs.

She throws her bag violently onto the street and shouts: take it!

 

 
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