half of the day under the ground finding places away from the chaos of people
to rest, to put the backpack on the ground
waiting for friends, busy as always
at the Seine a girl comes to us
playing the guitar
while her friends pack the tent they were sleeping in, to find another place for tonight
she begins by wondering why she is born in france why she lives in paris why she has to be schizofrenic
she sings, I cry a little bit
but only when she's gone
because she is the one with sorrows, I'm just the witness, I can only watch and realize how lucky I am
I cry because the whole journey seems to be lying on the shoulders today, because of the pain I have seen on the way, the misery, the poverty, the dead people
because of this girl who doesn't fit in
because of the West that is so luxurious, so anonimous, so rich, so indifferent, so busy as always
because of the sad faces in the subway
because of the ipods in everyone's ears
nobody listening to the surrounding sounds, nobody there, everybody where
Ganga, my friend from India, is here with me for a few days
the girl looks at him, longing for his homecountry where she has never been before
longing for it's liberty, it's spirit, it's nature
through her eyes I see India again
far away but still present
I am not sad, it's just my eyes that are crying
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