It’s the artist’s dream -
echoes of footsteps
tapping on cobblestones
poetry in percussion.
Strangers sipping wine,
spilling secrets,
sitting at tables
beneath his window.
A room above the cafe,
not quite an attic
but suitably rustic,
the atmosphere should write itself,
yet the pages
stay stubbornly blank.
He opens another bottle of wine,
perhaps, he has not suffered enough.
Soon, soon.
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