The shy musicians, presenting their tunes.
Humble poetry, melodic melancholy, sincere.
He sits on a bench one Saturday midday.
It’s summer, the streets are ours again, the night seem endless,
blessed by the tranquility of open spirits.
All the inexpressible failures.
Doors that are shut for no reason, at all.
So is his life.
And where will they end, these compositions,
in the night or in the glory of dawn?
His horn plays my heart’s rhythm, it’s beat.
Where will they go the streets, if they lead to nowhere,
the final destination being nothingness?
The moon is nowhere to be found but in my heart,
like crystal light reaching out, into eternity.