(Same poem as yesterday)
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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G'day mate
ReplyDeleteGood night here in Indonesia
You captured the mood and movement of Bourke Street perfectly. A truly moving tribute to everyday magic.
El movimiento propio de la ciudad, en que no faltala música para alegrar la población.
ReplyDeleteBuenas tardes, según la hora de mi país.
Making that fiddle sing!
ReplyDeleteA different take on the same street musician as yesterday.
ReplyDeleteExcellent!