The stevedores climbed the steps in a line bent beneath demijohns and

barrels; their faces were hidden by sackcloth hoods;

"now they will straighten up and I will recognize them,"

I thought, with impatience and fear.

But I could not take my eyes off them;

if I turned my gaze just a little

towards the crowd that crammed those narrow streets,

I was assailed by unexpected faces, reappearing from far away,

staring at me as if demanding recognition, as if to recognize me,

as if they had already recognized me.

Perhaps, for each of them,

I also resembled someone who was dead. (cities+the dead2)