A singing man

A small man sings on Copenhagen's Ostergade; his body twisted, his face deformed. It's 4pm and thousands of people hurry by. He lifts his mouth, pursed as if to kiss the sky. And out comes the clearest, true, pure sound of a child. The crowd seems annoyed, upset at the contradiction; a beautiful voice from that wreck. He twitches as he sings. It doesn't fit.

Only a few of the equally odd looking stop to listen; smiles expand with each note. "Isn't that amazing" beams a skinny old woman all in lime green. A worn out man, perhaps a dock worker, red faced and grizzled, tosses several Krone into the singing man's hat, nodding in appreciation. A few others gather to listen quietly, reverently.

And the man sings. He throws his voice out to bounce off the nearby buildings and ricochet down the Ostergade to be heard for blocks.

Peace!