The city pressed upon me; shops, cinemas and business houses spoke in unambiguous accents. Only the people said nothing. They bought the evening papers, hurried to a tube station and disappeared. Ceasing to exist.

Move in living images, he said. Rhythms, shapes, colours, forms they are yours. They are all yours. In them is embodied the language with which the laws of the universe brighten existence.
And dance in musical phrases for him who waits.

Nissim Ezekiel.