Next to the sea, no sounds.
On the hills, only silence.
Everything was closed
and at the same time open.
They were waiting for the venue
without knowing that he was already there.
The church was patient.
But he didn’t hear any bell.
The silence was between the sea and the hill.
Because the fjord didn’t say anything.
It was like a silent mouth,
a mouth without words.
He had to produce his own words
to give them to the fjord.
He would get the images
and would give the words.
No scream.
He started the sculpture of the musical landscape.
He wrote the text
even if nobody was ready
even to read it.
He was alone for the souls.
He wasn’t fired.
He was made for that.