As the train whizzed away, I waved goodbye. There was a lump in my throat.
We were left, he, his case, the pigeon prisoner and me.
He wasn't a corrupt politician, let alone a military thief, no, because of his shabby clothes and shoes without heels. A musician, a poet or a construction worker.
In his cage, so beautifully coloured in shimmering shades of sunshine, he was inflating his craw with great desperation. In my throat that lump turned into tears.
I tried to hide his picture, also to wipe away my tears, and when I lifted the case, he sang these lyrics:
"Nothing sadder than a man who in moans begs for love. He feels himself a prisoner, he's the cause and suffering in his passion.
Nothing is sadder than a man who in moans begs for love..."
As if bathed in gold from the case, a saxophone that he cleaned with the dich of the one who has a great love.
Silence as a judge became master and great lord, he looked fixedly at the horizon, took the beautiful instrument and lost in time, beautiful notes he released.
The saxophone returned to the case. He took the beautiful dove, though beautiful it was distressed.
After many caresses as if talking to the breeze he let his hands free "farewell ungrateful dove, may you never lack love".
He looked at my old shoes, that musician smiling said goodbye.
"Farewell my poet friend, may you never lack love.
I left my sad smile and looking at the old train at last I raised my hands, for ever I said goodbye...