It is march – starting in the Alps and continuing at home with coronavirus quarantine that ended straight with the train to Dortmund to a workshop. The color palette is no longer black and white, it is a slow awakening with the world gradually getting back its colors around me. It is a part of the movie – the script of which is throwing me away from side to side – or country to country with the break of full isolation; the month that ending reminded me of another poem, by Levitansky:
“- What is to come at the end? “ – “There’ll be April, I say.”
“There will be April, you sure?” – “I am certain, my lady.
I’ve heard the rumor, and I’ve verified it already:
Seemed like a pipe played a song in the forest today.”
