The Violin at Three in the Morning

At three in the morning,
When the world has not yet died, but is no longer living,
I sneak into your home, leaving no shadow behind.
I carry something very old with me,
That smells of ash, rain, and a little bit – of a dream.

The violin in my hands is not an instrument.
It is a vein. It is a nerve. It is a voice.
I do not play for everyone.
My music is not for the crowd; it does not crave applause.
I play for the one who is not afraid to be silent.
For the one who knows how to cry in thought
And laugh without opening her lips.

You wake up, not knowing why.
Somewhere on the border where sleep flows into reality,
You hear it – this violin, mine.
The notes touch you like fingers – cautiously,
As if afraid of breaking that fragile silence
Which you cherish within yourself.

I play for you:
About your rooms, where books are your best friends,
About those conversations you have with yourself,
About the dances that only the moon has witnessed.
You do not open your eyes, but you smile, for you know – it is me.
And even if the whole world forgets you again…

I – never will.