Zarathustra

You meet a man
One day by a roadside
While walking with his hands in his pockets
You meet him, you think you know.
Three days pass, three years three lives.
You greet the air as an iron door
Trying to stand still
Getting used to being rusty and desolate.
The man goes one day
His voice stays on squares
Roadsides tells a sadness
You watch the people
Walking with their hands in their pockets...