Once upon a time, there lived a great song-writer who got many marks of distinction, like a so called golden record, far away from all those big industrial cities, where the wind, the water and every place there was full of dust, muck and therefore the biggest pollution the whole world has ever seen before. In his little house, made of wood, he wrote and created one hit after another from an early age; hit after hit after hit. while the man was surrounded in this area by a beautiful and fascinating landscape. A countryside with forests and rivers, as deep as they could be on the one hand, as great and far-reaching they should be on the other hand. The song-writer, he was a human in his early forties, not very tall and not very small alike, had the gift, to be provided with the most powerful voice on earth, the agilest fingers somebody needs to play instruments of different types and, of course, the most important thing of all abilities, necessary to earn success and glory all over the blue planet, the creativity and experience for writing brilliant song-texts which touch every individual listening to music - the unique music of a song-writer in his best years, the time of his life. Simply called a "Virtuoso". Suddenly, on a fine, fine day in summer, the wind was blowing with a soft breeze over the land, the sun shone from its light blue dressing gown down on the deep green of the plants and awarded it a special sparkle - the glow of a paradise - the song-writer, he woke up late in the morning, tried to create a new work which would delight the mankind in the towns, but he had, in spite of his almost boundless appearing intelligence and his vivid imagination-richness, no further ideas which would lead him to such a bravura piece of music. There he sat on the bench of his terrace, over him a wooden roof, under his feets the surfaced ground, planted with grass and in front of him the dangerous, mysterious and nevertheless the unspeakable charming woodland, in its complete splendour. He decided, when he had nothing else to do, to go for a walk in the woods, still hoping inside his heart and soul, to discover new themes for his hobby-work, in the centre of nature. As he walked through the environs, he arrived at a forest glade with a tree trunk in its middle. The bright sun smiled friendly into his face, a few birds were singing. He sat down on the trunk and thought about melodies. Then, time seemed to be standing still, one golden birdie flew around, flapping excited with its dark red wings, and landed on his shoulder, near his ear, still bleeping him a sound in his auditory canel. After three minutes, the little bird flew away. Now he had an easy concept for a new song, not clear enough, but useful as a beginning. He wanted to go home after this "meeting", working his plans over, when he heard the gentle voice of a woman. Blinded by the starting light, his visibility was low and the song-writer was only able to hear her speaking. she called herself "The Muse", told the song-writer, that it was a present for him with her best wishes and, if it was only a vision or illusion, she disappeared in a ray of light, as far as she stood behind him. The eclipse of the sun went over He went home, not knowing, who or what she was, which event took place. Some time later, lunch was already near, he went, because of being very hungry, down to the river. He would try to fish a delicious meal out of it, especially an aquatic animal like a pike or a trout. In fact, it was not a real river, rather a stream or a creek. When he sat down on a huge stone, on the other side of the river bed, "The Muse" turned up as a figure of water. She inspired him with her distorted resounding language once more by talking about the quiet and comforting water cycle, the cheerful babble of the water, its importance in life. Furthermore she inspired him by talking about water as an element like earth, wind and fire, its true colour and its living being in it and finally about its variety as a devastating storm and horrific tide or as an idyll on the beach, where the sun warms your body. Then, as a gigantic wave flooded over its banks like the sea water against a cliff and rocky coastline, nobody else was there, only the irritated song-writer. Irritated and frightened by those implausible happenings. In the evening, it was already late, you could see the moon glow in the cloudless sky and with the rised moon his children, the stars, grew up. The song-writer sat on a chair at his desk, the candle light burning, tried to form the things he has learned, shown by the unknown and helpful "Muse", when a cloud cover, grey in grey, gathered. It began to rain heavily outside the building. He slaved away and seemed to be exhausted, as he worked his song-concept over, stared into the depressing night and remembered the romantic twilight and the restful sunset, but he could not get through the barricade which was built up this eve. Perhaps, the weather, the endless darkness coming over the land was the reason for this, his problem. The rainfall became much stronger, as it was anyhow, dark, black clouds covered the bright evening star and the moon, a crash of thunder rang out every second and the flame of the candle became extincted. For a while, there was silence. Then, the non-eternal flame flared up again, a shadow became visible. Suddenly, "The Muse" was located in the song-writer's room. She whispered some words about peaceful moments, the thunderous rain and the sonority, the sound effect of such a natural strength, to him, did that in an angry intonation, similar to a clap of thunder and, in another lightless moment, she disappeared, as she did it times before. The song-writer, as tired as he was, went to bed and dreamed about his new experience, but additionally about the mighty person. The empty sky has spent enough tears in the rain, after the last thunderbolt hurt the soil. Nearly two hours after midnight, the officious wind increased a high point of speed and whistled through every corner of the wooden house, so, as the walls tried to come down, the song-writer roused from his dreams. He sat on his bed, feeble and a bit chilly, as he marked a pattern in the sound of the wind - it was the sound of a flute. With this knowledge spoken out, he could hear the polyphonic voice from "The Muse" of above. She gave to understand, that the wind carried the culture and the customs from all over the world to every country. You only have to know, how to use it. The wind died down, with it the voice of "The Muse" and the song-writer went to bed renewed, no longer worried about the different things which had happened all the day, only driving on his imaginary highway in his imaginary car somewhere into a dreamland, a secret garden over the rainbow with flowers. back into the night. With the first sunbeam, the daybreak, the song-writer, full of energy and strength because of the ideas he had to create songs, stood up and began to work. It knocked on the door. He opened it, but nobody was there. He heard the same voice he had already heard this night - the voice of "The Muse". She said goodbye to him, with the same gentle voice she used in the forest, and was glad to help him with her 'song for the asking' while he was under pressure, a solitary man behind a blockade. She gave him one last hint and the song-writer sweared, never to forget about it. She told him, that he was more than ever able, to create songs which would reach humanity on earth, but he should never start to be an impolite. ignorant, heartless, intolerant and unscrupulous man, never start to think, being the only one because of all the honour and the fame. All in all, he should be as he was, trust himself and take care of nature and music. The goodbye's echo stopped on the top of a mountain and there was a sudden hush after their farewell. The song-writer closed the door after this words, this luck he experienced. It was the door into his old new life, the past and the future of a so called "Virtuoso".