between two worlds

(If you like music, accompany this reading with that one that inspired me)

After writing the last letters of an unfinished poem, the poet turned his hands away from the cold, crumpled paper, as cold as his own soul.

Trough many desperate attempts, he had been unable to find within himself the divine inspiration for his poem.

“I need music; I need angels to touch my dry heart!” he said to himself. With moist eyes and trembling hands he once again spun the old record with his favorite music.

Slowly, languidly, he followed the aerial trajectory of the divine music, ascending to ethereal planes that only he knew, saving his soul from dying one more day.

Sublime landscapes then appeared before his now serene eyes, forests of eternal green, fountains of turquoise waters, where fairies quench their thirst.

Then, his consoled heart was filled with warm joy, so much so that for a moment he thought he might even die of happiness….

The next morning, a servant slowly opened the door of the study and, surprised by the silence, entered the room, but it was already too late. His lifeless body lay on the desk.

Everyone mourned his loss, and his unfinished work. A mourning crowd accompanied his body to his final resting place.

That same night, the poet, who had been sailing through infinite paradises of celestial inspiration, returned from that secret place to finish his poem… but he was unable to find his body.

Sad, without heaven and without body, without hands to write, his soul remained absorbed for a long time in front of the old desk.

Then he heard a different music, coming from an unknown place, so beautiful that it suspended his soul in a kind of eternal and infinite instant and, although he had no body anymore, he could still feel his heart beating…

Many days and years passed, letting thousands of sunsets fall uselessly on the opaque and dusty curtains of that room. Until one lonely night an angel passed on his way back through that lonely and sad place to take with him the broken shreds of what was once a ghost in love.

But before he left, with his own heavenly hands he wrote the last word, the end of the most beautiful poem ever written by a man and…. an angel.