Storm. A rag, all holes and patches, is swept by a gust of the wind and attached to the shivering with cold body of an old drifter, snuggling against waste containers. Well, it is hardly supposed to warm him up, but is welcome anyway. Easy come, easy go. Plucking it out, the wind once again takes it high up in the air. The old man gazes after his hope for comfort and warmth flown away, until the rag gets caught on the top of a poplar. It hangs on one end, while the other one is fluttering and flapping as a banner, which invokes the old man’s remote memories of the vicissitudes of his life under other banners. Seasons succeed each other: winter, spring, summer, autumn… Years pass, banners change each other, covered with glory or disgrace, victories or defeats, while the rag, the all-time banner of the poor, still flaps at the top of the poplar.