A youth with mullet trailing wild,
A cap hung low, the city’s child,
Stood firm where footsteps throng and blur,
His violin his saboteur.
With rosined bow and eyes cast low,
He summoned tunes both fast and slow,
Each note a cry, a silver thread
Unspooling dreams the street had shed.
Behind him flowed the tram’s refrain,
Its bell a chime through smoke and rain,
While cars crawled past in tangled streams,
Oblivious to his stitched dreams.
He played not for applause or coin,
But for the world he might rejoin—
Where echoes rise through autumn's breath,
And songs outlive the hush of death.
Bourke watched in greys and neon hue,
As music flared and nightfall grew.
The crowd passed by, then circled round—
A boy, a bow, defying sound.
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Nice
ReplyDeleteBeautifully written! The imagery is vivid and evocative, and the atmosphere you’ve created is truly captivating. Congratulations on such a moving piece!
ReplyDeleteQue dura e ingrata es la vida de los músicos callejeros.
ReplyDeleteI agree on your writing. He really loves his job.
ReplyDeleteGreat moment with that street artist filling that avenue with musical notes!
ReplyDeleteThe Devil went down to Melbourne . . . .
ReplyDeleteEl violinista alegra con su música los oídos de los que pasan.
ReplyDeleteFeliz fin de semana.
Amzing people who can play musical instruments.
ReplyDelete