LOST MUSIC

“Music is only love looking for words.” - Lawrence Durrell

This week, Poets and Storytellers United has given the theme of “Music for the Muse”. I brought to mind the often repeated words that lovers say when “that” song begins to play: “They’re playing our song…” And they become starry-eyed. The song is significant for those two people and is laden with memories. Alas, sometimes those memories are quite sad, especially if the love affair has ended, one way or another…

Lost Music

You left me, without a bitter word being said
Taking flight in a hurried flurry like a bird;
My life all of the sudden empty, void,
A darkness and a pain I can’t avoid.

When you were gone all of the music died
Your absence grey, my life’s colour denied
In midst of summer, now cold and frost,
All joy and song and dance were lost

Our song now echoes in my empty heart,
How can I listen to it since we are apart?
The music was once tender, joyous, sweet,
But all I feel now is sadness and defeat.

The fates conspired and our love was crossed,
We gambled, with our stakes too high, we lost.
Where are you now that I need you most?
A hazy shadow, an elusive wispy ghost.

Memories, wakened by the music in my soul,
In fibres of my being run and consume me whole.
Music is the food of love, they rightly say,
And in your absence, no song will ever play.

Our song now echoes in my empty heart,
How can I listen to it since we are apart?
The music was once tender, joyous, sweet,
But all I feel now is sadness and defeat.

I couldn’t resist putting the words to music! Here’s the poem set to music and you can find all my music in my “Otidorchestre” channel or listen to it on YouTube, Spotify,  Amazon, Deezer, Flo, Pandora, and other music sharing sites.

AWAKENING

“Optimism is the madness of insisting that all is well when we are miserable.” -  Voltaire

This week, Poets and Storytellers United has as its theme: “Starting Over (Again and Again)”. It reminds me of a proverb I first heard from my grandfather, which said: “If you realise you’re on the wrong road, don’t mind how far down it you’ve gone, go back to the fork to find the right road and start walking on that again.” Here is my poem on that theme:

Awakening

Awaken, awaken,
Seize the day!

The long black night ends, at last
And I can banish all that’s past;
The new bright morning breaks gently
While my heart beats all the more intently…

Breaking free from chains of sorrow
I can look now at my tomorrow;
Awake, fly to heaven, oh my soul,
Escape from yesterday’s black hole.

Today, I have a chance at happiness again
My heart beats free, no longer in pain.
My arms are loosed from bonds and ties
Ready to stretch, to reach new highs.

Escaping from the prison dark,
I venture out, walking in the park;
The trees, the breeze, and golden sun
Are mine again, life’s just begun.

The sky’s fresh painted a happy blue;
I’m ready now to see the world anew,

My eyes wide open, bright and grateful,

Seeing nothing evil, bitter or hateful.

Today, I have a chance at happiness again
My heart beats free, no longer in pain.
My arms are loosed from bonds and ties
Ready to stretch, to reach new highs.

Awaken, awaken
Seize the day!

And once again, here’s the poem set to music and you can find all my music in my “Otidorchestre” channel or listen to it on YouTube, Spotify,  Amazon, Deezer, Flo, Pandora, and other music sharing sites.

WHAT'S GOING ON? "RUIN"

“Life and death are balanced as it were on the edge of a razor.” ― Homer

After a long period of absence, and having found this site again; Hello, old friends and fellow writers! I have been busy, but I am well. I hope you are all in fine form and it is good to virtually interact with you again. I am joining you this week to take part in the prompt “Ruin”.

This poem has been inspired by Greek Mythology and comments on the ruin caused by earthquakes. Enceladus was a Giant, the son of Gaia (Earth) and Ouranos (Sky). During the Gigantomachy, where gods and giants fought for supremacy to rule over the universe, the gods won. Enceladus was defeated by Athena, the goddess of wisdom and thrown in the depths of earth, imprisoned deep in the rocks. However, Enceladus every now and then tried to escape and to shake off the mountains that held him captive. Whenever that happened, earthquakes occurred on earth.

PS: Just in case you are interested, in my absence I wrote a novel, “The Nursing Home”. More about it here.

Enceladus

Enceladus

Sleeps and his slumber’s sound –

His usual napping underground

Untroubled by dark horses…

His languor soothing mighty forces.

The frightful Giant sleeps

And his vengeful hand he keeps

Relaxed, at ease, unmoving;

His mother, Gaia, looks on approving.

His eye starts to move and roll;

A muscle twitches, then his body whole.

He turns and tosses, quite disturbed

A nightmare gallops in, fury uncurbed.

The Giant wakes, his tail uncurls

His mane of wild hair shakes and swirls.

He roars, and arms he stretches

The rocks above him crack, the ground retches.

The earth is split

Ground quakes.

A deep dark pit

Opens, soil shakes.

The houses crumble,

Walls crack and break –

His roar a mighty rumble,

Destruction in its wake.

His sleep disturbed, his pain

Anew awakened, goads him,

And his rage in frustrated strain

Exhausts. His injured limb

He stretches, and Gaia above

Him shudders; her mother’s love

In sympathy making her cry

His pain and suffering decry.

Up, down, and side to side

The ground is turned to jelly;

As Enceladus tries to hide

Deeper in his mother’s belly.

Ruin complete and utter devastation

Above him death and trepidation –

(Athena victory forswore)

All this, revenge enough for

Enceladus…

A SONG ABOUT NOTHING

“I don’t know anything about inspiration because I don’t know what inspiration is; I’ve heard about it, but I never saw it.” - William Faulkner

Inspiration is a curious thing. The artist ever in search of it, may find it in the most unusual place, or it may be frustratingly elusive as a will-o’-the-wisp. Any writer can recount many an occasion when the ominous shadow of “writer’s block” has darkened his existence. How many authors lose their ability to produce new work or experience a creative slowdown! The condition ranges in difficulty from coming up with original ideas to being unable to produce a work for years. Throughout history, writer’s block has been a well documented problem.

On the other hand, how many great works of art have been inspired by the most unusual muses! How many great works of literature have begun in strange circumstances… How many poems written after quite adverse life experiences? But then again, how many works of art or poems have been created out of nothing?

Today, I am sharing with you such a curious thing. It is a poem of the Middle Ages by Guillaume IX, Duke of Aquitaine and VII Count of Poitiers (yes, the grandfather of Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine).  He is the first troubadour that we know by name. His songs are typically ribald, full of puns and jests, but his verses display the deeply artistic and eloquent art of later troubadours. His granddaughter, Eleanor, was the one and only heir to the wealth and the vast lands of Aquitaine.

Guillaume’s “Ferai un vers de dreit nïen” is an interesting poem about “nothing”, but in fact it is about everything… It proves that inspiration can come from nothing and result in a poem that is meaningful and filled with the poet’s existential questionings.

The Song About Nothing

Here’s a song about absolutely nothing:

It’s not about me,

It’s not about anyone else;

It’s not about love.

Not about being young,

Not about anything else either.

It came to me while I was asleep,

Riding along on a horse.

I don't know exactly when I was born.

I’m not happy,

I’m not angry.

I’m not a stranger here,

Yet I don't belong here.

I can’t help being like this,

I was made like it by a fairy upon a mountaintop.

I don't know if I’m asleep or awake

Unless someone tells me.

My heart’s almost broken,

It’s so sad…

And all this doesn’t matter a mouse to me

I swear it by St Masha.

I love someone – I don’t know who she is

Because I’ve never seen her;

She hasn’t done anything to please me or upset me,

And I don’t care.

I’ve never seen her, but I love her truly.

She is not yet done what she should to me, or what she shouldn’t.

When I don’t see her, then I’m happy.

She’s not worth a cock to me

Because I know someone who’s gentler and prettier,

And richer as well…

I don’t know where she lives,

Whether up in the hilltop or down in the fields.

I daren’t tell you the wrongs she does me,

It hurts me too much

And it hurts me to stay here,

So I’m leaving!

I’ve made the poem, I don’t know what’s it about

I’m going to send it to someone

Who’ll send it with someone else,

To someone over in Anjou:

Perhaps he’ll be able to send me the key from his little box

To unravel this riddle.

Guillaume IX, Duke of Aquitaine and VIIth Count of Poitiers

(22 October 1071 – 11 February 1127)

A LULLABY

“Mankind must put an end to war before war puts an end to mankind.” - John F. Kennedy

Another of my short stories today, one which is unfortunately perennially current and relevant as mankind continues to go to war…

A  LULLABY

“Mama, I’m scared…”

“I’m here my treasure, I’m holding you.” Her voice gentle and her hands firm around the fragile little body that trembles against her racing heart.

“Mama, the walls might crash down on us and kill us…”

“The walls are strong, your grandfather built this house with his own hands. The walls have stood firm for many years now and they will be here for your children to grow up in.” Her eyes wide open, the whites shining in the darkness. The face haggard and dirty, every now and then illuminated by the flash of an exploding bomb. The small window in the basement that would not close fully was enough to let the fear in. The smell of death encircled them and the noise of battle surrounded them.

“Where is my father, Mama?” The little voice was shaky, the trembling of the little body in her embrace not only caused by the cold.

“Your father is helping injured people, my love. He is at the hospital, you know that.”

“Why do they want to kill us, Mama?”

“They do not want to kill us, my darling, they are bombing the bad people.”

“Was my friend next door bad?”

The woman closed her eyes and stifled a wave of emotion. She should not cry now. She should be strong. Strong for her daughter’s sake.

“No, our neighbours were not bad, just unlucky…” She hugged the child tightly. “They were hit by mistake as they were coming back from the market.”

There was a respite in the awful sound of warfare outside and the flashes of light gave way to an unearthly greenish light. The sudden quiet in the cellar was more foreboding to her ears than all of the unholy uproar previously. She shuddered to think of the future, yet that future was only moments ahead. The concept of ‘next week’ was something that had become foreign to her. To survive this day, to keep herself alive for her daughter, that was her only purpose now. If tomorrow dawned for them she could thank God and try her best to survive that tomorrow also.

“Mama, when is my father coming back?”

“Hush darling, you know he is needed where he is more than here.” Her voice was hardly a whisper and it took great restraint not to cry out the pain that was bottled up inside her for days now. She felt her heart beating and it seemed to her to be a hand grenade, ready at any moment to explode and devastate her whole being. Her husband would not come back, she knew that. Her daughter must not know, now.

“Is he helping the sick people?”

“Yes, my heart of hearts, he is at the hospital and he is operating on the injured, helping them to get better.” She embraced the girl and started to sing her a lullaby. A soft, peaceful sound that reverberated in the darkness and calmed herself more than the child. A lullaby that was sung to her by her grandmother and her mother. A lullaby that she wanted her daughter to sing to her own children when she had them. But that was light years away, the priorities of the here and now dictated otherwise.

The whistling sound of a bomb falling, a flash of brilliant light and an explosion were followed by more. The child started in her arms and screamed. These bombs were falling too close! Her blood turned to ice and her eyes closed as she hugged her daughter to her breast.

“Mama! I wish he was here now! He would protect us…”

“I’m here for you, my darling, I will not let them harm you, hush!” Her voice rang out above the sounds of explosions. The ground was shaking around them and the old timbers above them creaked. Showers of dust fell around them and the flash of the explosions illuminated them making them seem like a golden rain.

The house collapsed as if it were made of cards. Debris was hurled around the neighbourhood and the charred timbers pointed up accusingly as the bomber planes disappeared over the horizon. The village had been razed to the ground. Smoke billowed in dark clouds over slowly burning piles rubble and whimpers of the survivors under fallen walls were the only sound that could be heard now. Deep in a cellar a woman is quietly singing a lullaby clutching the child in her arms. She rocks her precious daughter in her arms amidst the ruins, and her tears stream down her face. The blackened skin of her cheeks is bleached as each hot droplet trickles down. Her voice breaks as she looks at the face of the lifeless child on her lap.

IN PACE REQUIESCAT

“I am a part of everything that I have read.” John Kieran

I have been rather busy these last few days and have had to revise my daily schedule several times. Today, I offer you a short story that I wrote several years ago, in response to a challenge that involved writing a story with the requirement that it begin with the last line from a favourite books. I chose as my first line, the last sentence in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado”, which ends: “In Pace Requiescat!” Now, read on!

In Pace Requiescat! On the gravestone a sad memorial, the letters eroded and barely legible. The filmy curtain of falling rain makes the task of reading the inscription even more difficult, the twilight seeming to be darker and gloomier in the moisture-laden air. As the heavens weep, the gentle sound of rain is a distraction, further lessening the sharpness of vision. A sudden noise behind him. Was that a twig breaking? He looks back. Nothing. Only the massive outlines of the cypresses around the cemetery looking at him threateningly - an army of cyclopean dimensions ready to attack. And yet, they stand firm. His jaw clenches tightly.

He stands motionless and looks at the grave, one of many, so many, in the old cemetery. He sighs and despite his urgency he stands his ground and scans the graveyard, struggling to read the faint inscriptions of more gravestones ahead. Time, he needs more time. This will never do. He will not be able to find the grave in time. His hand tears down a creeper that obscures the lettering on a stone. The darkness steals upon him with each passing moment and he kneels to decipher the inscription. Not this one, either. He blinks to free his eyes of rain that clings to his eyelashes and as if they are tears, the drops run down his cheeks.

The sodden earth sticks to his boots as he strides forth to the next group of memorial stones. They rise from the ground as if bleak bystanders turned to rock. His gloved fingers brush away cobwebs that have captured a myriad diamond-like raindrops and he stoops to read. Lichens and moss further hamper the task of making out the old writing on the dark grey stone. Laura… Could this be what he searches for? A ray of hope is lit in the darkness of his heart of hearts. A weight seems to be lifting, but as he clears the lichen away the caption of another life long gone is revealed: Wife of Thomas, here interred… He sighs and sinks into despondency again. Time – time is running out as the last failing light is giving way to night.

Another sharp sound behind him makes him rise and turn abruptly. A shadow dashes into the dark yews, becoming part of them. A faint susurration merges with the sound of dripping rain and quietly disappears as if a snake were disturbed and slowly slithers away. They will be here soon! Time! He runs to the next grave, a large crypt, its gaping maws black and menacing through the half-open grille of the ironwork gate. In the murky wetness he looks up to see what name is graven on the ancient stone, as he pulls down an obscuring creeper: Wexway… This is it! This is the name he searches for! Behind him shadows move, and a fetid odour mixes with the cold dampness of the moist earth smell. Wet moss and decayed wood. He ignores the approaching noise and dashes into the tomb, slamming the gate behind him. He looks for a latch, a lock, and finds a bolt that he draws shut securely. Fiery eyes regard him from the gathering darkness outside and the hissing sounds are clearly heard through the fainter sounds of rain.

He takes a tinderbox from his greatcoat pocket and strikes. The sparks fly ineffectually and he strikes again, this time a flame jumping up. It burns brilliantly and he lights the lantern that he had concealed in his knapsack. The hissing outside increases in volume and the fiery eyes move a little more distantly. He looks around, shaking the rain off him. The tomb is so quiet after the drone of the rain outside. The smell of death and seeming aeons of decay assails his senses and the oppressive weight of stone above him makes him shudder. There is a stairway hewn into the rock ahead leading downwards. The gloom below impenetrable, his lantern light too weak to penetrate the depths. Resolutely he descends. This must be done!

The flickering light of his lantern plays upon the rough walls and shadows dance as he descends the steps. The hissing above him mixes with banging sounds on the ironwork of the gate. It must hold fast! He hurries downwards and enters the burial chamber, his lantern a promise of hope and salvation in the dank shadows that surround him. A dais made of stone is in the centre of the chamber and on it a sarcophagus. This must be she! Laura! The banging on the doorway upstairs echoes down the steps into the chamber. The furious hissing sounds rise in frustration as the doorway remains shut. He breathes heavily as he approaches the platform and his heart all but stops.

On the stone of the cover, her name is carved in simple letters: “Laura”. His Laura? His eyes well up and hot tears stream down his face. They drop heavily on the stone. He hastily wipes them away and rests the lantern on a ledge opposite him. The flame flickers and then begins to burn more steadily. How can she be lying here dead when only last night they spent the night together? No, it cannot be. This is some trickery, the old man was wrong. He misled him. Even if this is her coffin, even if it is his Laura’s coffin, surely it must be empty… He must look inside. Make sure.

He takes the iron bar from his knapsack and he hesitates only a little, aware of the rapid beating of his heart and his raspy breath. Outside the hissing has not stopped and still a thwarted bang echoes on the ironwork. He grasps the iron bar firmly and he prises the tip under the lid. With great effort and a harsh sound, stone grinds against stone and slowly the lid begins to shift. He stops as a thought grips like a vice his whole being. What if she is here, lying motionless within this tomb? His mind echoes with a silent scream that his heart lets out. Laura cannot be here. He pushes the lid determined and it crashes to the floor, breaking and raising a veil of dust. The sounds from above are silenced momentarily and as he opens his eyes he looks inside the coffin.

A white shroud encloses the shape of what could only be a corpse. The cloth shines out in the darkness as if it were phosphorescent. He extends his trembling hand to touch but lightly and withdraws it, as though the winding sheet were white hot. His heart races, as his breath comes out roughly, gasping. His hand slowly extends towards the shroud once again. What would he do if his eyes beheld what he could not bare to see? What if this body were to be Laura, his beloved? Then he had to commit an act that he cannot bear even to contemplate. Laura!

The noises upstairs have started again, this time with the enraged energy that frustration breeds. He glances towards the stairs and then with one swift movement drags the shroud away from the coffin. His blood freezes. Laura in all her beauty is lying there, serene, as though asleep. Her dark, shining hair, her beautiful face, her red full lips… He whimpers and he knows it all is true. The noises up the stairs have reached a fever pitch. Her creatures are almost upon him. He brushes away hot tears and with rapid motion takes a wooden stake and mallet from his knapsack. Her eyelids part and her eyes regard him with a strangely vacuous stare. This must be done, and then In Pace Requiescat…

WITHOUT A MAP

“When a woman is talking to you, listen to what she says with her eyes.” - Victor Hugo

I wrote the following snippet of a story as a result of a challenge to “write a short story of 350-400 words”. Here is what I wrote, counting off just below 400 words:

WITHOUT A MAP

My love affairs had always followed the rules. A disciplined existence such as mine always adhered to schedules, time-tables, agendas and dot-point lists. Was it so surprising then that my liaisons were predictable, worked out by a mathematical formula and more often than not, negotiated? Compatibility was not the result of exploration and the enjoyment of doing things together, but rather it depended on the outcome of some computer match test.

Relationships worked out as expected, rather like a well-rehearsed formal dance where both partners know the tune and steps, and the interaction becomes mechanical, rather than the expression of a deeper passion that drives both to improvise and enjoy the emotion of the moment. The machines of these relationships broke down with amazing regularity, not because the mechanism was being overworked, but rather of ennui - a boredom generated by the repetitive, clockwork-like precision of their predictability.

Caz was different from the beginning. She came into the office in an eyebrow-raising flurry of organised disorganisation. She held a tourist map of the City and a puzzled expression creased her impish face.

“I always confuse myself when trying to read maps, can you tell me how to get to this place?” she said, pointing vaguely to a spot circled on the map.

I looked disapprovingly at her rather scruffy appearance, but her smile was sunny, genuine and disarming…

I wavered and smiled back without meaning to, spontaneously and helplessly. There was something remarkably appealing and fresh about this woman. I started to rattle off a set of directions, but her blank expression after a couple of sentences made me smile again. I nodded and pointed her towards the door.

“It’s lunchtime,” I said. “I’m walking down that way, put your map away and let me show you…”

Caz and I are as unlike as two people can be. Opposites attract, they say, but how lasting can such a relationship be when there is almost nothing in common between two people and their relationship is a constant succession of surprises, clashes and opposing goals? A roller-coaster ride of passionate outbursts and deep emotions, discovery of not only of the other person but also of one’s self.

We’ve been together for 20 years now and this one, crazy relationship that has lasted, was all without schedules and formulas, tests and compatibility quotients – a wonderful trip, without a map…

EARTH DAY 2015

“The sun, the moon and the stars would have disappeared long ago... had they happened to be within the reach of predatory human hands.” - Havelock Ellis

I met an alien today, who had just clambered out of his spaceship in a forest where I was walking. He approached me and we looked at each other in wonderment. He spread his hands out in a greeting, and bewitched he looked at the beautiful green trees, the flowing stream, the butterflies flitting about, the birds singing and the clear blue sky above. He gently touched a flower and his words formed in my mind:

“You live on a beautiful planet, I don’t think I’ve seen one more beautiful in all of my travels across the universe.”

“I know,” I replied, “but many of my fellow humans often forget it…”

“It is as fragile as it is beautiful, like a soap bubble or a clear crystal.” He continued.

“Beautiful things are easily spoilt.” I mused. “And we earthlings are not as wise as this planet deserves. We have evolved, it is true, but we have lost our sensitivity and we have become unbalanced.”

He looked at me sadly and he sat down on the grass, tenderly. He breathed in deeply and his thoughts merged with mine again:

“Your air is still fragrant and fresh here. I come from an elderly planet that my ancestors poisoned and which is now dying. We were forced to abandon it, searching for a new habitable world. A pity that such a beautiful planet as yours is inhabited. I would have liked to live here. Is there another one like it nearby?”

“No,” I replied, “this is a rare and enchanting planet, and you will have to search long and hard to find another like it. Alas, my fellows do not appreciate it as they should.”

“Why do you say that? I see a green forest, a clear stream, birds, animals, butterflies, you!” He said.

“This is one of the last few vestiges of wilderness. In South America the rainforest is being burnt. In Asia the trees are being cut down for timber. We waste our precious resources, we fail to renew and we do not think of the future. We are poisoning our oceans and polluting our air. We are driving our animals to extinction and the sun once our friend is now burning us. Our glaciers are melting and our seas are rising. Earthquakes are happening all the more frequently and tidal waves are drowning our islands. The climate is disrupted and we are hurtling towards destruction. We are blind and do not see the precipice which yawns open in front of us…”

He looked at me tears welled in his eyes.

“Then, you too are destined to become interstellar refugees like us…”

I nodded and gestured around me at the precious reserve where I worked.

“Stay a while, be my guest, I befriend whoever appreciates what we are losing.”

“No, I must away! My people are depending on me. But please, may take a few seeds with me? A flower or two and a green branch? The mothership is in orbit high above and they will rejoice in what I shall take back with me, if you give it me.”

I gave him what he wanted and more. He who has lost something precious deserves at least a memory of what he squandered.

Happy Earth Day, April 22, 2015

Please, let us not lose the irreplaceable…

BEST AUSTRALIAN BLOG?

The 2013 competition is now open for entries. Entries in the competition will close on Thursday 28 March 2013.
 
There is over $18,000 worth of prizes, including cash, writing courses and books, to be won by finalists and winners.
 
You can follow the centre and the competition on Twitter. The hashtag is #bestblogs13

SIBERIA - MY ENTRY FOR YULAHU's SHORT STORY FEST

Yulahu has issued a challenge that is based on some photographs she has taken in the Römerplatz, one of which photographs, is shown above. She said:
“Copy one of my photos to your blog, and write a story...than let me know about it.” Here is my entry:

SIBERIA

Siberia is frigidly cold in winter. Come to think of it, Siberia is cold in summer too. The warmth in our hearts has to make up for the lack of heat of our pallid sun. That, and a drop of vodka now and then – more then than now. It was always hard to scratch out a living from the gelid earth, but now it had become even more difficult – perestroika, glasnost and the mafia, too…

To put bread on the family table is my responsibility and my wife’s eyes, they too had taken some of the ice from the frozen earth outside as my efforts to feed us were becoming more ineffectual. The silence of my children and their empty bellies a wordless accusation more effective than loud shouts and cries.

The decision to leave our homeland was difficult. But the colourful images on the foreign magazines were so enticing, the flickering blue light of the TV screen a mesmerising temptation, the promise of a better life so tangible, so easily attainable, it all seemed so easy! A voyage of thousands of kilometres, countless dangers, endless sacrifices. The warmth of our hearts saved us from the coldness of the wintry enmity of the people along the way.

We had to survive and all we had was each other. How else could we have managed to end up here? Here where the streets were meant to be paved with gold. Here where laughter was to be heard in every street corner. Where life was bright and warm and colourful like the images in the magazines… The life of an illegal immigrant is not an easy one. If one has a family, then it becomes even harder. Hard like Siberian earth, no matter where one is, even if one is in laughter-filled Römerplatz.

No jobs, life is not a colour magazine, even here. People may smile sunnily, but their hearts are cold. The autumn sun still so pleasantly warm, in Römerplatz, but to eke out a living here is as hard as in Siberia. To put bread on the family table is my responsibility and the only way to do it is to make the laughter louder, to make the mirth more widespread, to entertain, amuse, divert these carefree people. I apply my make-up and freeze on my dais on Römerplatz. The children dance and sing sad Russian songs, my wife plays the balalaika. The dogs do their tricks – how people laugh! I smile and bow deeply each time a coin hits the cold metal of the box in front of me. Ridi pagliaccio!

Our hearts are still warm as a cold night falls and the thousand coloured lights of the Römerplatz illuminate it like a fairy tale that my babushka used to tell me. Bread will be put on our table once again tonight. Our feet drag on the cobblestones and still, all that we have is each other. It is enough.