“Other times music draws the scenes.
Our man is not wearing the apropiate clothes for a hot day. His coat, winded around his arm, is about to skim the dry and dusty stones of the railroad. Meanwhile he tries hard to step on the old sleepers to make his way easier along the rails. Sweat trickles down his forehead and his shirt has too many buttons undone for an elegant man like him. Carries his short brim hat in his right hand.
An empty platform with a bench in the shade, hosted by a small roof standing on its old wooden legs. The perfect resting place. He sits on the bench, gently drops his coat to his side and puts his hat on his lap. Dries his face with his carefully folded handkerchief. Then he puts it away and from his other pocket takes out a small sheet of paper. He looks at it, closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. At that moment the fuzzy colors of a long train hide our man and the old platform. And right after all that unexpected and loud roar, the rised dust fades out and lets us see the smile of our friend.
We leave him looking at his piece of paper, under that roof, with those broken tiles. We manage to distinguish an old factory. The end is yours or nobody else’s. Actually it doesn’t matter.”
Pierre Le Brato
That’s all. The text and the music.
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