this isn’t a fit place to be in. No, it’s bad—bad in every way. And I’d rather be off. I’m off; I’m off.
First and Second Street-Sweepers:
Good-morning, Elan Chol.
Elan Chol:
Street-Sweepers! The track of a bird in the winds cannot be seen, nor the path upon waters whence flows human youth. There are many human paths inscribed in the dust, and the tracks of human tread are engraved in the mire which you wipe away and smooth out. Do you not oft-times hear a shower of tears and drops of blood soaking the ground of the city? It is slippery with the mire which has been created by torment. You gather it and smooth it out. I imagine that you possess the skill of reading from the dust how grief creeps along the pavement of the city and stations itself in corners.
First Street-Sweeper:
Yes, all this is known to us.
Elan Chol:
Do you not distinguish in the dust the tracks and spots where, with leaden foot, the limping destiny of the previous day has trod?
Second Street-Sweeper:
I imagine that we can distinguish it almost with certainty.
First Street-Sweeper:
There are many such signs.
