The Musician

Often during the night, without noticing it, I’d arrive to
another city where there was no other but an old man who dreamed
that someday he’d become a musician; and now he sat in the rain half
naked; he was covering an old, imaginary violin with his coat over
his knees.
“Can you hear it?” he asks me “yes” I say to him “I’ve always heard it” while at the far end of the road the statue narrated the true voyage to the birds.

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