The Sweeper

the sweeper stands out there, with the infected bandaged eyes,
with the long besom in his hands, with black & dirty working overcoat.
he stands in the middle of the square, the square with tall bared trees and flaming grass.
from my window, i see him walks hobblely. he talks with those fairies, quietly.

he is not a worker, but he works, he is not a scavenger, but he scavenges, he is not a thinker, but he always thinks, he is not a sweeper, but he sweeps... ...he always sweeps, he always sweeps.

in the middle of nowhere, he stands with the long besom in his hands,
with black & dirty working overcoat. he is a sweeper and he sweeps the square,
the square that placed near our place of working.
he waits for someone, for his woman who will come to his way.
he always cries, and he hopes that his woman isn't a sweeper.