His staccato steps sharp, proud
While my feet don't touch the ground.
The eyes of the bourgeois pierce the skies with rays of anger
Not solely his.
My own gaze at the cobble-stones, uneven as my
Passers-by bow their heads,
Homage to an elderly man with an innocent daughter.
For we are the few,
In a virulent sea of insurgence,
A bland touch of class.