On his chest he draws
The years passed
In form, uniform, hours counted
He enters the chess board cafe
His regular table and buddies
Are waiting for his arrival
In the air there is laughter
And the smell of a thousand cup
Of coffee served
He enters the chess board cafe
Alone shaking in grey
His table has one chair
In the air there is silent song playing
In his head memories longing
It is his move
The laid chess board has only one piece left
It is his move
It has been his move
For a long time
But he never moved.

The cafe is closed
The chess board is lost
On his chest he draws.

April 3, 2019