On La Trobe Street where the shadows lean,
Beneath the hum of midnight's sheen,
A bearded man with quiet grace
Plays to the dark in a softened place.
A beret tilts upon his brow,
Like Paris called but Melbourne now—
And glasses catch the streetlight’s flame,
Reflections dancing, never tame.
His fingers stroke the strings just so,
Each note a breath, both high and low,
A hush between the trams that slide,
A lullaby for those who bide.
No crowd, no stage, no bright acclaim,
Just city bricks and night’s acclaim,
And in that fleeting, fret-worn tune,
The stars seem closer to the moon.
He plays for no one, yet for all,
Each echo pressed against the wall,
A gentle hymn for those who roam—
The sound of distance feeling home.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 865
