Voyeurs?

Bright clothed in printed Kanga cloth, large baskets balanced gracefully on heads. Limbs and bodies like stalks of grain in wind they moved in harmony and grace. In tattered clothes beside the dusty street he sat, barefoot, white hair and beard, head bowed, eyes down his bundle set aside, he waited— for what, we never knew. Alone, outside the shop where passers-by could see her toil, feet rocking on the treadle of her old machine, she sewed what she would never wear. In frayed white shirt and ink stained cuffs, black tie, black shoes, and spectacles, a wooden table, pen and ink at hand, he scribed for voices not his own. We walked the streets of this small town. We peered through doors and windows dark. We captured images on film and in our minds, yet failed to touch a single soul.