I've been to this bar (or café) a few times at the end of the week. And every time, I saw the same scene before this song. A few guests would stand up and offer the singer a light from their lighters. The whole place would go silent—everyone knew this was the last song, and the musicians would soon leave. It was the final ritual of their performance, a moment of quiet magic. I wanted to walk up to her myself.

And then, she sang Summertime—Gershwin’s timeless masterpiece.

This song is nostalgia, a mood, and déjà vu. I don’t care about likes. Just tell me—did I manage to capture even a fraction of the atmosphere?

Low lights flicker, whiskey glows

Smoke is rising, drifting slow

She leans closer, eyes half-closed

Like she’s been here, like she knows

No one’s watching, but they stay

Voices fade and slip away

Then she whispers soft and fine

"Next up, Summertime..."

Five men standing, fire in hand

Silver sparks across the stand

She takes her time, plays the game

One by one, she feeds the flame

A nod, a breath, a veil of smoke

Frozen faces, spell is wove

Her lips part slow, sweet divine

And then she sings… Summertime...

Summertime, and the livin’ is easy

Fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high

Oh, your daddy’s rich and your ma is good-lookin’

So hush, little baby, don’t you cry

Summertime… golden glow, velvet night,

Every note’s a lullaby...

Hush now, baby, don’t you cry,

Summertime... won’t say goodbye.

Room exhales, life goes on,

Glasses clink, voices dawn.

But I still see, clear as time,

The way she sang… Summer

time...