They somehow squeeze

Fifty of us

On a thin wooden stage

Including six cellos,

Four basses, one harp,

And all that goes

With the percussion section.

Behind the rows of empty plastic chairs

Mopeds, traffic and life whiz by.

"They think this many will come?"

Waiting for a new audience

Different from our

Devoted parents and families

Now so far away.

9:30, seats are filled.

We can't put names to the faces

But we are a part

Of their celebration -

Fifty years of freedom

Since the Fascists left

This Italian town.

The baton is raised ...

A dark-haired Cinderella dances,

We hear the flowing rivers of France,

The Firebird dies, and

Steam engines and automobiles race by

As a Bohemian sees America for the first time.

Music is lifted through the night air

Reaching foreign ears

With applause they show they understand

And we communicate.