Amid cheers and taunts
Of oblivious onlookers
The hunger artist honed
An obsolete craft

They all waited, but soon
Tired of waiting
Urged him to speak
And voice his cares

He – having nothing to declare
No grudge or whim to propagate
Stayed silent and watched
The voyeurs drift away
Leaving behind an elderly man

“On which day are you, my son”
“Thirty six sir, with sufficient strength left”

The old man sighed and sat before his cage
Together they waited for the voyeurs
Until they crossed the fortieth
And then walked away