SON, CAN YOU PLAY ME A MEMORY?

No sleep, all night. Dipping my lips into wine I know you would have loved. Amarone - you bought it, remember? Left one behind in Athens. Don't worry. It'll be even better when you come. Maturity, complimenting the apotheosis of innocence... Wow!

I sipped through all the memories of the last 20 years. Years that have flied like a burst of unpredictable wind in a slow desert.You've grown so quickly, so wonderfully, and I can't tell you how proud I am of you.

In the darkness and silence of the hot and humid night, here, in the town where you were born, 20 years today, I downloaded everything I had in and around me, and I played it again and again, until an inpulpable touch of light on the sea told me that Morning Had (actually) Broken.

(Όλα τα λεφτά στο βιντεάκι που ακολουθεί, είναι ο Γερμανός παρουσιαστής, και ο παμμέγιστος πιανίστας που, πρόσεξέ τον, πως μασάει συνεχώς!)




Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.

Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass.

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day.

It's usually, now, the time that you come home. Every time, as if you have completed yet another incredible round of unnegotiable adventure. A triumphant acquisition of your glorious and undisputed youth. With your friends. With your love games. With your songs. Of Greek afternight...

Your mother's agony, yet another sign of the wonder of what was your birth, and what is every single moment of your life. The clothes that wrapped and protected your body. The words that comforted or angered your feelings. The trips and journeys to the best places of our country. Every Easter in the arms of God. Every summer in the fury of the wind, the waves and the sun. And, every Sunday afternoon the "yellow and black" dream and nightmare of the "best friend" we ever had!

Happy Birthday, son. I love you.