with a majestic solitude it proudly stands,
the circus tent of reds and whites
in the autumn meadow
just outside of the city.
behind it they tower:
apartment block colonies
with concrete facades and folded up
parasols on the balconies.
here, cigarette studs resemble stars.
gray skies hide the horizon and the fact
that the sun has tiptoed off the set.
fog seeps out of the forest,
it gets colder,
and the trailers sit ever so still
in a semicircle around the tent.
no soul is around
and art’s still keeping aloof
from this hour of dusk.
then, with a silent click
a string of bulbs timidly lights up;
oh though it shines.
then, the curtains get pulled back
by an invisible hand
for the crowds to enter.
ever so lowly, a beat turns up from somewhere.
it’s all rehearsal tonight
without masquerade, applause or cameras.
but here, magic already roams.
because contrary to common belief,
it’s not made for the stage.
instead, it’s practicing the tripple,
the fleeting one between the beats, giddily,
without a care in the world.