I first heard it in February, at dawn. It woke me up like a sweet promise for the new day. Slowly, it revealed to me the secrets of its life. Simple secrets and great, important ones. Wrapped in the beautiful song that decorates the spring of the city more than any flower.

Years go by. And the thrush is still there, behind the old wooden shutter. It sings, and I remain silent. That’s how we talk.