Yet, the face, wrinkled by time’s cruelty, looks like one of those tired old leather footballs he’d kick around as a kid.
Songs of revolution and freedom boom out in the background, music now relegated to the status of ‘classics’ but which was the very lifeblood of his youth.
Ignored as he walks the streets, he’s a relic, a scarecrow ghost.
He’s not part of the modern world, though this matters not. For he lives in his own world, and a better one at that.