THE OLD VIOLIN:

As the dusty old town awakes with a yawn, he steps out every single dawn,

An old man, garbed in used & holey black, upon his bent & doubled back,

Under his arm is an old violin case, held tight, while shuffling at his old pace,

In Piazza of fountains where bumble bees sing, untying case from tatty old string,

With violin tucked beneath his chin, the smile upon his lips now slowly begins,

People treading pavements of slow slimy grey, stop, listen & softly they sway,

Violin, old, scratched & missing a string, in hands of the maestro, trembles & sings,

The days of glory, Vienna & Strauss, far cry from their now squat of cold, nit & louse,

Days of opera, Milan & fair ladies swirling, of music around souls, enfolding & curling,

Old fingers caressing, old smile & old-wept tears, duets together for so many years,

The people who watch are taken far places, tears roll down the young & old faces,

Taken away across mountains & seas, away from drab lives, upon musical breeze,

Coins tossed into tattered old cap, the people transported then all start to clap,

Old man bows, as he did once to the King, tying up his friend, again with old string,

Trudging off to the place of no song, patting his case, saying, “we´ve been here too long”.