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People come and go away from the square of the life. The minstrel sings. .. People love and people part with the love. They listen to his music, but they not hear him, his pain and loneliness. The minstrel always stays in the rain, feeling “the moving of the pain to some other person…”. His love and his pain, the pain and love of others are always inside him.
His life, his love, his songs under stars of the squares... People will forget him, but they will sing his songs. Sing, minstrel! Sing, “talking to the sun which way to which way to run life…”. Why must he leave this world is the question without the answer.
Sing, minstrel in the square!...
That is what I have felt, reading your poem, Walt.
Irina.