I sing flat on empty beaches when I’m scared
and hum there when everything seems alright;
it’s my private concerto for fright and for joy,
not meant for anyone else to be heard.
Sometimes a seagull joins in for a while
or the rain is singing refrains with the bird.
On misty days, it’s the monotone horn
setting the tune for the song.
The sea as reliable baritone, old and grumpy,
though sometimes cheerful his voice.
And deaf shells and washed ashore jelly fish
are our private audience and don’t care.
I dare to make fun of Euterpe there
before we take turns and I listen
to the best music ever by waves,
to the song of beaches and seas.
I’m a singer for deaf ears only
on a deserted flat beach.
No one hears but the baritone sea
and dying jelly fish. And me.