I called it a story, but I don’t really know what it is. I guess it’s more of an illustration that I tried to paint with words.
I wrote this text on October 23, 2018. I remember this scenery well: a crowd of people rushing to the underground because it was raining. And near the station there is a person playing the violin. But no one halted, as neither the weather nor the evening hour was favourable.
When I got home, these words came to my mind. I don’t know if I can convey my thoughts by translating, but I will try.
Melody
The melody was soft, as it always had been. Soft, delicate, and imbued with a tinge of sadness, it resonated anew as the bow caressed the instrument. Although faint, it faced no barriers, for certain images transcend the confines of distance. The falling raindrops conveyed the music afar, as did the branches of trees whispering in the forest, the waves surging across the sea, and finally, thoughts and memories themselves. Borne by gentle gusts, the melody descended with the rain to it’s destiny, though it lay so far away.
How many times had this been? The tenth? The hundredth? Neither the hand that caressed the violin nor the wind, which remembered each concert as though it were only yesterday, knew.
Time and again, the beech trees standing as sentinel to a melody unheard, narrated their tale to those chasing the day. Sometimes, it seemed someone understood, pausing to heed the forest’s voice. Yet, they moved on, unable or unwilling to discern the words among the leaves. At times, the birds perched on the beech branches attempted to echo the violin’s song in the night, yet they too remained unheard. Ignored, akin to the sea’s roar and the wolves’ howls, though each tried to tell the same story.
No one remembered when the vague figure of a girl first appeared in the forest. She stood on the cliff, gazing seaward, her visage forever etched in the sea’s memory – beautiful yet marred by a sadness unknown to the world. The tears she shed among the waves remained forever as salt in the sea. Then, turning away from the seafoam, never to look back, she sat on a fallen log and stayed until the sun set and the first constellations appeared in the sky. And when the stars shone, she drew out her violin and touched the instrument with her bow.
And then she played of sorrow and hope, of autumn’s rains and winter’s chills, summer’s heat, and finally, of spring’s greenery. She played long and tirelessly, though the night was cold, and the rain matted her hair and soaked her dress. She played until the sun rose again on the horizon. Yet, none came save for the birds, awakened, listening to the melody; and the animals, lying under the trees in the clearing, spellbound by the music.
And so, each evening she came, sat on the log, and played. Sometimes people in the distance heard the beautiful melody, yet they dismissed it as merely the wind playing among the branches or as figments conjured by a weary mind.
Nothing changed. The young girl’s face grew wrinkled, her tears long since dried on her cheeks. But everything persisted as it was.