Somewhere the gold lives in a bank, pampered, the confidante of thousands. Yet any blindman, a beggar, is to a copper penny like a lost place, a dusty nook under the hamper.
Money seems right at home in the stores, thinly disguised in silk, flowers and furs.
He, silent, stands in the pause between breathing of all of the money that's awake or sleeping. If only one who saw, amazed, would finally understand and laud its long survival. Only a singer might say. Only to a god would it be audible. Hause und verkleidet sich scheinbar in Seide, Nelken und Pelz.