Chronicles of the onion flavour

Your recently acquired fame precedes you. You are young and full of energy, more than you usually need. You appear on stage all dressed in silky white, wearing neither shoes, nor underwear. When you sing, you place yourself against the warm stage lights and your silhouette is redesigned under your clothes. Wind machines gradually loosen your hair, to the point it looks like dancing fire.

You brought your friends with you, whose names I cannot recall, except for Isabella, with her high heels, and Tom, with his magic harp. Together you slightly enchant the audience. We pounce on your loud and slurred rock, and cradle with your melancholic and absent ballads. You request our claps frequently and smile when we scream for your name. You like to be spoiled.

After a while you realize you are not acquainted with the scenario, so you gently ask us to come closer to the stage, in a warm embrace. But you do not allow us to touch you; music is the only connection available.

You smile, once again, as we sigh with your smell of fresh roses. You sing, you scream, you cry, you play, you run, and you dance. And then you go, after a sheepishly thank. You are the ultimate beauty, and that destroys me.