These beggars tug at your sleeve to smell your money in thin sheets of small paper, sleeping in your leather wallets with decisions about their life, marriage and God inside.

Their thoughts mainly look into a sitting plastic tumbler of loose change, where water should have flowed smoothly.They dream of scraps of music, sung in trains, with breeze that came in and went out, through a whir of train fans and a sad song could easily flow to a single wire of music.

Outside the temple their cloth spreads like night sky and coins glisten in it, like stars on moonless night lying loosely with decisions about life, women and God.


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