I know nothing of you, not who you are, or what you are, or what your flag is.

You fly no flag, you proclaim no identity.

You may be a crossing-sweeper, or a grocer, or a marquis for all I know.

Of course, that matters very little; but what does matter is that never for a moment have you shown me not what you happen to be, but what you are.

I've got the impression that you are something, that there's a real 'you' in your inside.