Here on the garden chair
seeing the gloom descend
and the light is gone, hiding the white of the jasmines.

Only a crow, silent on a dry tree
frozen by the voice of cello from a little boy
playing a plainted song
alone in the middle of the meadow

letting the time pass, hoping the tears
would dissolve in the dark.
Here on my chair
I melted, feeling his pain.

Song by song.

I saw him.
I saw me.