Every song tells a story; every note records a mood. Stories about musicians, wandering and faith. Carrying my berek on my back, from the Aegean Sea to Scandinavia, crossing the mountains and ridges to find the paradise in my heart. In the red morning light of the Adriatic, the troubadours sang Sappho's songs. There is wind, blowing from a distant era, those days of four-piece harps. In a Serbian alley, a bearded barber falls in love with a priest's daughter. Go left after exiting the theater, under the eighth camphor tree in Block 2, there is a cafe called "D Major". Passing by a field of blooming sunflowers. Thinking of Van Gogh and Mozart, the clean and clear square in Prague at dusk, the gold coins in the Trevi Fountain sparkling. Ride a horse through the Peter Prairie and hear Chopin's piano crying in the dark night. How many melodies flowed through the deep Rhine River. No. 272, Bonn Lane, dark green window with Beethoven playing the moonlight inside. Who is it? Sing an old song in Irish at dusk. The wandering artist's notes fell from the accordion keys and fell on the grass, wild flowers, hills and villages. Meet a shepherd, with his sheep in a valley where wildflowers burn, and listen to him tell the music of Pindar. Sitting on the castle, listening to the nightingales singing under the sun. The knight under the moonlight, whispering, is he going to save Zenda's prisoner? The rhythm of walking, searching, and life has weakened... faded... The dream is blurred or a sigh in the years, gently sighing out all the helplessness about time. The sunset in my memory is hanging on the wall covered with ivy, in the wall. There lives my childhood violin teacher. I remember that at that time, I wanted to be a musician and go wandering with my music. Once upon a time, we all imagined that the music was as pure as the stories.

Once upon a time, the music and stories are still going on...