The Musician
Often during the night, without noticing it, I’d arrive in another city where there was no other but an old man who dreamed that someday he will 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.
Manolis Aligizakis 