Orphanage - Cliffs Of Moher

In the hall I can see only a few of the listeners, I don’t see my friends either, they are sitting somewhere in the middle of the stalls. They asked me to nod to them - of course, as a joke. But even if I wanted to do this, I could not - because of the blinding light of the spotlights. Quite distinctly, I distinguish only people in the front row, but I avoid meeting their eyes, deliberately looking over their heads. Sometimes a comment comes to me, even if those in the front row speak in a whisper. “There he is, Beethoven,” says one; “A wonderful introduction,” whispers another. Someone sitting right in front of me, turning to a neighbor, notices that my shoes are not well polished; he does not even bother to say quietly, so that I do not hear.