A sort of homecoming

The foolish musician caresses the clean

wood. Now his days are numbered. Now

he has exposed them on the salon table

like genuine rhinestones. He picks up the

accordion and starts to play. The office

people put down their work. The farmers

stop threshing. The rowers leave their

boats floating on the water. Clouds are

hovering just aimlessly across the sky.

But the foolish musician keeps playing.

Songs about the fiddle-faddle of love.

Songs about the hushed silence of death.

And while the naive acacia trees gently

humming in the evening light, God puts

in His wisdom the gate already ajar, pours

hot water over the freshly roasted beans.