When I sing, the world splits open, and listens. When I sing, when I sang, the world listened. It split open, like a rose. And listened. The whole world was, just a rose. I placed the rose … in a tall bottle. I placed the bottle … in the cellar. I returned, to my singing. I sang, but my singing – it did nothing. There was no one, listening. No one to listen. I could hear it, only, my own singing. I did not care to listen.
Of the years, I cannot speak. I have forgotten everything. Even my songs, I have forgotten. The sound, of my voice. The singing. But one evening, remembering … something. I crept into the cellar, feeling along, the wall. Touching, something. Touching. Trembling.
And when I opened it, at last, the bottle, when I removed the cork at last …
There was no rose. There was no rose – but there was wine. Rose wine. Rose wine.
I have so far never run out, of wine. I may never, run, out. Perhaps … I will even sing again. Some evening. Some time. Some evening, I will sing. Again.