See him wandering alone,

The crowdless man,

He has no group,

He has no tribe,

He carries his identity in his pocket.

His pocket has a hole in it,

His story has a hole in it,

His tragedy is not a tune you can hum.

His suffering and sacrifice,

They have no handles;

His persecution has no logo,

No shrine, no yardstick.

His joy has no credentials,

His observations have no fixed address;

There are no awards whatsoever.

His gaze and yearning are way outside the loop, 

His pilgrimage has lots of holes in it. 

See him wandering alone. 

Beaming to himself.