THE PARK

Not far from the busiest streets, in the middle of the city, there is a park hidden in the shadow of tall buildings. A metallic embrace clutches it, through which countless green leaves and twigs weave. Every Sunday, it is draped in colorful pictures hung by street artists. They couldn’t fit across the street in a glitzy gallery full of famous artists and works, so they hang here at least. They smile at everyone who passes by. Sometimes the sun tickles them with its rays, and sometimes the rain caresses them with its watery fingers like trying to paint them.
Just a short distance away is a wide-open metal arm, inviting all who pass by to visit. It’s not as cold as it first appears. It has a concert full of bird arias to welcome all its guests and serves them a tray full of sweet scents from the surrounding flowers. Occasionally, it also refreshes them with a glass of gently flowing drops. Along the way, they are then accompanied by their ever-present guide, flitting through the tree branches. As if to suggest which way to go. The dreamy gazes of mute witnesses of days past and future. Always available to help very tired visitors lean on. Now and then a green canopy spreads over their heads. Just step in and let yourself be carried along the winding paths, walk to the stream or to the gazebo, behind which lies a pond full of water creatures.
But till back there, hidden from the world, is a small bench. Not that it is afraid, but it is protected by the long branches of a huge tree, which bends over it as if to shelter it in its gentle green arms. On summer days, it gives her a pleasant shelter from the omnipresent rays of the sun, and on rainy days it shelters her from the wet ropes falling from the overcast sky.
From the morning the birds sit on it and chirp their song, showing off and hopping about as if it were their concert hall, and they put on their perfect show. Only, apart from a few stray grasshoppers that scurry about in the grass, oblivious to what’s going on around them, there’s no one really there. It’s not until the afternoon that they are replaced by the restless legs of schoolchildren returning from their school trips. They scamper across the green carpet, forgetting the time before they have to run back home to their homework and their beds.
And when the day begins to hand over the reign of darkness, passes two pairs of legs of the mute witness who hides the secrecy behind his back. From his comfortable armchair, a happy prince, dressed in his jade blazer watches them, a mischievous grin on his face, as if reading their minds. Luck and bad luck are romping on his hand in the blue. Accompanied by their two companions, they dreamily read through lines of poetry…

• • • “Lying, the telling of beautiful untrue things, is the proper aim of Art.”
    • “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”
    • “ Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.“
    • “Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

And a young couple is passing a darkened gazebo that has been serving a plethora of visitors during the day but is now plunged into darkness like most of the locals. But the two are heading on to their destination. All the way to the back, where the sweet conspirator of love stories lurks. A small bench wraps them in its arms and gently hides their love-filled secret. Covered by the veil of night, they whisper words that belong only to the two of them.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, who knows what tomorrow will bring. Tonight the secret is hidden with at the forever mute witness.

(3.12.2023)