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.