2024-04-20 21:54:36 RUNNINGS


Who is sitting behind the screen with rags around his hand, with a leather eye patch and about his shoe a ribbon? It's the mute an angel there of his sour distress hammers the keyboard to transform the hardest Stones to bread. You wake up every morning, at the very dawn. You hear him hammering on that keyboard, again, again, again. He stayed the same even by his old legs, creating from wild sparks not complaining about rain or of the stone he made. He leveled it all for others, the difficult way. But then it came one Christmas, his spirit had to sway; It was the mute who abruptly lost the energy and his way. They carried him beyond the present, a cold December day. It's written in the cemetery on the old seeded board; That leans badly to the right; The paint is off but it's his, the mute's life was full of Stones, but on his grave - in death. They never gave him one.

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