He plays his violin,
like a blind man reads braille.

He need not see: the sweet tune
sings in his heart,
stings his sightless eyes.
The music, like his sorrow,
sits deep in his soul.

He wanders the days away by rote–the years
have carved a path through the cobblestones,
guiding him along.

The villagers gather
to hear him play his magic.
But he no longer performs for them;
he now plays solo, to his wife,
God rest her soul.

Soon, he will join her,
for the last serenade.

Photo–Wandering Violinist by Andre Kertesz

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