The Central Pavilion Poem by Cristina M. Moldoveanu

theater of ideas:

a well aerated room with a black box under the window
a young middle-aged woman wearing out of fashion bluejeans

monologue (aloud) :

when I listened to the bird songs I did not know
which one was the nightingale
and I did not dare to give it a name
in my apprenticeship years I learned only to obey
in my wandering years I did not invent any new road
not even a single word in my silent years
and then I died on the edge of the precipice I did not jump into

aside:

it looks like I resemble all the others
I have the same shadow struck through with thick lines
exactly like those who fell from their feet before me
I have the same thirst for light
I always get to the point beneath and not above 'I'
and I admit that I'm not the only one
I too got old too early and they left for me only the candle
plus the salt cellar with very bitter salt
perfectly natural in case I need it

recorded sound:

'Let It Be' panpipes and bagpipes
the sound of water in a stainless steel sink