The curtain rises, a subtle shiver of expectation goes over the stalls.
I cannot see clearly, it’s a bit dark.
Is this a theatre?
Is this a stage?
I’m tired…
My violin slipped out of my hands
And the music got broken.
The music, is made of crystal,
It’s so fragile.
Now all the notes are tinkling and falling down the stairs,
Step after step,
As coins from a holed pocket.

I’m too tired.
It’s too dark.
I’m too old…

(This image and all the possible emotions related with it are dedicated to an elderly gentleman I met many years ago in a street of Prague.
He was a violinist.
But this is another story.
If anyone expressed the curiosity to know it
-It’s a true story-
I might tell it one day…)