and the children were playing and running round and the birds were singing in the trees, singing beautifully –
just an old man, sitting on a bench, he could not smile –
he kept pointing at the birds, saying
“that song is mine! mine!” –
the children could not even be bothered to argue with him –
they glanced at him briefly with eyes saying “oh! you poor old fool” then dashed off again, playing.
they left him sitting there.
one day he died.
the birds were still singing.