I was seated less then a meter away.
She sang her heart out, barefoot.
On bare concrete. Bare boned.
Broken concrete. Surprisingly warm.
The more holes in her shirt the more charming. I counted four.
Playing and plucking and singing.
The evolution of Latin spilled from her voice.
I'm sure that England was in her heart
I'm sure that wine ran through her veins
and then day breaks..