they walk in tatters, a worn shoe, a broken umbrella a heavy heart, a fallen soul they drag along years maybe even centuries of history burnt to ashes.

their story was never told, buried under the great wall hidden among the murals they become Samson and Delilah nameless, baggageless, with no place to hide, except their shame.

they live among us, as one of us, you and me victims of the sway and glitter of power nobody knows their name, they live anonymously and posthumously their presence invisible.

they live to see the end of a tunnel, not as a bleak of hope, as a liberation from reality. the dark corridors of the tunnel sing about their unglamorous past, their struggles to make a living, to be recognized as someone, with a name, with feelings this light, at the end of the tunnel, that light is them.