I saw this cart with the bull and the old man with the white beard. He looked so tired. And so did the bull. This in the middle of the hustle bustle of Dadar. How we all have our private spaces which sometimes seems to disconnected from what's going on around.
Shack, Hrush's friend. At the Ghetto.
For some strange reason the photo of the man resting on the street brings to me the thought of a man resting carelessly at the side of a dried up lake.
His dry shadow cast upon the rough sands by the warm rays of the dying sun.
Into the night the moon rides like a hound, with the void that it carries in its starving stomach.
I try to see the rationale behind the crazy logic that drives through this head of mine but fail to see the storm hinting at some other point of space trouble and time.
The tired bull, the tired rider, the tired driver, the tired cart, the tired soul, the tired wheel, the tired road, the tired lens, the tired film , the tired photographer's eye, and the tired heart behind the tired eye --- for u i lay the red welcome rag to the dream of a tired ' why? '
Light falls through plastic skies onto the sand,
Hollow metal pipes howl of the pain of my land.
Sound cracks like glass shattering on the floor,
There is no end to this pain, it grows more and more.
"Dear lad", asked the man in the scarlet gown,
"Are u sure your have come to the right town?"
"Yer sir !", replied the scout without a clue,
"The light in my life isnt dark, just of a different hue."
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