the musician

the echo of strings

from the busy street it rings

as rosiny dust fills the air

a melody, calm, slow, almost still

a lone pigeon stops to stare

 

 

hastily They rush around

unfazed by the sound

another noise in the clamorous city

but the notes flow on

sweet and long

the pigeon beats its wings and is gone

 

 

the song ends soft and low

with a swoosh of the bow

yet the corner is louder than before

if only by some chance

They gave just a glance

the strings would come alive once more

 

 

They say ‘reap what you sow’

but what it means They don’t know

for They can work day in and day out

but if there’s a drought

the melody is nothing more

than a few dots on a score

and the musician is simply ignored