Traveller

I go along a dirt road. By a rude fence I see two dark-haired men, in white shirts, standing and weeping. I am hungry. I sit by the side of the road in the coarse, opulent grass and undo the bundle of the red-checked kerchief. While I eat, I watch the grieving pair, who stand very erect and silent as the tears drip down their cheeks. Their hands don't stir from their sides. They are brothers, I decide. "It's a shame they don't have a guitar or other stringed instrument," I think, "to elevate their sorrow into art. But alas, this is a poor country."