The Show Over

The last sounds still vibrate in the air
The lights go down one by one
The hall is empty, the show - over

Alone in his dressing room, tired and drained,
The artist sits, eyes closed, head bent,
The brain still working at a full speed,
Slowly relenting, losing tempo

He has given all and even more
Now feels like a shell without a content
Like a tree that's lost its leaves
Like an abandoned  house
A body left without soul

The artist remains motionless
There's no hurry
He knows that the sleep won't come
He would feel lonely and cold
Far from going back to mundaneness, routine
As most of his public would do

The life of an artist, his own choice
Brings along the fate -
The fate to be torn between two entities:
That of an artist
And
That of a man