selflessness

Lying on his bed, relapsed into some unclear memoir, he was dreaming of a day.

The day that all his creativity would be demonstrated in some shelves and all the cordial spirits would be imprisoned in his nasty lungs. His raring ambitions would be accommodated in a single room, with a single view in which only a tree would be the messenger of spring.

And it’s in the cold spring evenings when he longs to be there, on the beach, on a chair with a bottle of red wine and an empty glass. Saluting the cloudy sky, he would whisper a song. A Greek song. And he would dream that he could dance right there on the pebbles. A Greek dance. Like this, it goes: da ram... da ram... da ra ra da ram... da ram... da ram... da ra ra da ram... da ram... da ra ra da ra ra ram... da ra ra da ra ra ram...

The wind would witness as he was dying, that nothing could judge the right or wrong then...