True Vivaldi s Four Seasons

This collection isn’t about Vivaldi.
It’s about the inner music we play —. when we love, when we stumble,
when we fall, when we feel so deeply, that silence becomes our only language.
True Vivaldi’s Four Seasons is a portrait of a relationship that wasn’t just a relationship, but a map of the unspoken.
About a word that touches more than touch itself.
It’s an attempt to capture, what would otherwise dissolve. Music written in the language of the soul.

Thank you for the inexhaustible inspiration and for the true touch.
________________________________________
I.

 
It only seemed like love and freedom.
He was playing it — because he didn’t know how else.
He knew what he wanted to feel,
and what he wanted others to feel.
He created an impression,
a resonance,
an image, a connection —
through illusion, he shaped feeling.
He could craft it into perfect nuance.
He knew how to touch.
Truly.
So — very much.

 
-------------
II.

 
He knew how to touch the soul.
Because souls always fall silent
when they have something to say.
And his silence was never random.
It always drowned out everything that wasn’t real.
This man’s silence always speaks.
And I feel.

 
------------
III.

 
He appeared in gentle trembling,
hidden among the words of others’ dreams,
to which he lent his voice. It seems
that was the only thing that wasn’t foreign —
a melody that rippled and adjusted its form.
Uncertainty was the only stable norm,
mirroring the image it projected —
an atlas of faces and tempting dreams
he collected.

 
-------------
IV.

 
His world was built by others.
He didn’t hide his face,
yet he was often invisible.
Simply and unapologetically masculine at the base,
adorned with veils and jewelry,
made of phrases he never stuck to —
just the thrill of the game, his witty play.

 
He searched through meanings of words,
searching night and day,
between the thoughts of others,
for what can only be imagined —
what can be touched in that magical way.
He could embrace it, regardless of distance —
wings of the most fleeting existence.

 
--------------
V.

 
He could hold you with resonance or resistance,
confirming the right to his own existence
with the lightness and grace of a ballet leap,
dancing so that I never sleep,
able to dissolve all barriers and limitations.
One-man show a week,
his personal standing ovations.

 
---------------
VI.

 
His words were all states of water —
raging waves and warm sea currents,
an avalanche of snow rushing from mountain slopes
down into human valleys.
Melting spring snow,
 

He was stagnant, muddy water,
a hatchery of protozoa
in dark forest corners where life begins.


He was the full cup of dreams — The Lord of the Rings —
living and dead water,
the kind in fairy tales that brings resurrection and fate,
a new conception, a never-ending date,
the moat that keeps enemies
from storming the castle — an entrance for exception.
 

He was a very conscious perception,
the river you can neither swim nor cross,
a depth that can only be sailed across.
An ocean of feelings and faces —
he was the boss,
a movie in production.
 

He knew the difference in the taste of distance,
the core of his true existence. He knew the code.
He protected and honored mystery —
the wealth of the spirit,
and the wealth of misery.

 
-----------
VII.

 
Unlike others,
he could preserve the morning’s light in a dewdrop
until it evaporated.
And in his eyes, fascinated,
he carried the trace of that miracle
without a hint of regret.

 
Because he knew the magic was not in memory
or nostalgia — but in the ordinariness he met,
in simple repetition —
his key to happiness, his curse:
one real, unfeigned clip,
the eternal pain that never heals —
the longing for what endures,
a real relationship.

 
-----------
VIII.

 
He knew he could not hold on
to anything that does not change.
So he lied so sincerely, so strange,
that in his secret wishes, illusions, and lies,
he eventually could no longer lie to himself.

 
His own wings could not continue, but he flies
in his belief in life.
Inimitable,
unique,
and true.

 
It seemed to me he was love.
He was a child of blue.
It seemed to me he knew how to be free —
like a fish that never surfaces
unless it wants to —
if it wants sincerely to be.

 
----------
IX.

 
I know —
untouchable reasons.
But I thought he was just,
yet constant and recurring,
like the unification
of all Vivaldi’s four seasons.

 
A captain — and all the crew,
my lighthouse and his touch of true.