A North Indian who has been in the next year is tall and thin, with a white lips and a shaved face like a dried fruit. The upper body is a square vest with a lower body around the pants. The feet were wearing earthen cloth shoes, the right hand was holding a walking stick, and the left hand was holding the cloth umbrella and went to the city.
  At the time of August, the sun was dazzlingly touching the thin clouds. The night wrapped in black has long been panting. The foggy wind swayed the branches of the Amuraji tree carelessly.
  At the end of my world, where the phantom flutters, there is a traveler. I only know that he is a person, no surname, no consciousness, no feelings, no demand, just a person who goes to the market in the morning of August.
  He also saw me. In the swaying purple scorpion at the end of the desert of his world, people have nothing to do with me. I am just a person.
  There are burdocks in his family, and there are caged parrots. His wife wore a rough copper bracelet and shovels the wheat. He has a laundry-dependent neighborhood, is familiar with the owner of the grocery store, and owes money to Kabul merchants.
  I am not among them, I am just a person.