A row of men in caps sit still
along the stone bench, shoulder to shoulder
a quiet congregation of screens.
Each head bowed,
not in prayer but in signal,
their thumbs murmuring in perfect rhythm.
The city swirls around them
trams clang, pigeons scatter,
light flickers across their faces
like water over stone.
They do not look up.
The world passes in reflections
on glass and metal and moving lips.
Time, too, seems to pause here
a row of lives humming softly
in their separate orbits,
united by invisible threads of light.
And in that stillness,
the stone bench holds them gently,
as if the street itself were listening.
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