reds and whites

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.

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