We walk on the open square: children are playing with coloured balloons, an old man sells ice-cream, in front of the church young people wave flags of eastern countries…
You turn to me and say: “Listen!”
The clear sound of the trumpet rises clear above the street, but we cannot see the musician at first, and then there he is: playing this divine melody, under the cloudy sky, oblivious of the crowd slowly gathering around him.
We look for a hat, a box, some recipient where to throw our change in, but there is none, for this is a poet, who lives by and for his art.
Nice, I am walking in that same square
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Mmm, you really got that golden sunlight oozing through the words.
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