They lay on cotton chairs
Seeking what they see
Craving what they want
Selling their flesh, their soul
For a coin, for a letter, for lustful eyes.
The music plays
Blood stained notes cry
Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Tchaikovsy
But these pretentious souls
Laugh at it!
Unable to grasp beauty, they won’t feel anything;
But their own pretentious life and lies.
I knew an artist once
When I was just a little child;
In front of me, alone, and in front of everyone
His eyes would swell,
His lips would tremble,
Witnessing, and in harmony with the music of the centuries–
He would break down; His eyes would cry.