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{link: quand je suis triste} Josh Groban’s You’re still you! 

They were sitting on that green metal bench, which never moved from that quite little corner. 
I walked up to them and asked if they are writing silent letters to someone?
They stared at me for a while. Then, clapped their hands, laughed aloud and
walked away from the bench. I feel sad that no one wants to understand me.
And no one wants to know the secret.

I found it on one of those evenings when we both were sitting all alone in the cold.
I drummed my fingers on its cold and rusted skin. Suddenly, something slipped through my fingers.
Soft, silky and smooth semi-liquidy bodies of words dripped down slowly.From nowhere like parachuters.
I did not hear any jets roaring overhead. Some kind of silent attack force hit the ground.
You do not believe me either. I do not know how to convince you.

When I sit together with this bench, I feel I am slowing down.
The world does, no longer, seem to be a maze of crowded streets.
Filled with nervous and sweat drenched bodies, the stench of which knock at the doors of my eyes.
I force open my eyes to watch them talk. People are loud and they want to impress others. With what? 
They repeat the words that are written on the white board, which I could read.
Their hands move in all directions like puppets moving in the air.Their words are all around in the streets. 
I search for a pair of hands behind the curtain.
Someone should be there to draw in and out the strings of these puppets.
If I do not talk to them, they do not mind telling me the whole story again.
A rather peculiar noise chugs along like a locomotive on the railroad tracks
that run from the top of the rise into the tunnel.
I look out of the window and watch that little boy standing near the fence waving at the train. Waving at me.

Then I noticed her. Sitting on a small green metal bench between a thick bunch of trees.
She does not want to touch the world. She tells me so in a glance.
She is facing some kind of trouble with someone in the big house next door. She works there as a maid.
Her glance tells me many things. Should I run away from my home in the night?
Should I leave a note for my little boy who is fast asleep in the night?
What should I write to him?
What if someone finds it as a ragged piece of paper and throws it away into the street?

On breezy days, these lonely sheets and dirty pieces of cloth hiss at the car window.
As if their tear-stained, dirty cheeks want a kiss from me. No one, but the breeze cares for them. 
I know they cry for those who left them behind. I know they want to be found.

This whole story makes my heart heavy. I turn my face away from the bench.
 I want to be alone. I do not want a conversation this evening.
I want to hide all those stories – in my yellow cotton bag. A red puppet doll sleeps in my bag.Always.
There must be some sixty stories. I saw them all. They are from the same street.
They want to be alone too. This evening.

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