A dark-skinned man, gentle fellow,
Cajoles the low and mellow cello.
In streets that live by yellow light,
His forsaken song doth fill the night.

While crowds step on, chaotic pace,
Their callow minds a distant place,
The cello bellows, gentle bass.
Battered strings, a steady pace.

The huddled man, sepia skin,
Weary from the come and been,
Thought “pretender,” music rings,
In street-light beauty, fingers sing.

Well-worn wood a shallow ruse,
Fingers pluck and play and bruise,
Tattered shell, but notes cascade.
Appearances betrayed.

Songs that hold me where I stand,
Cadence simple, heartbeat grand.
This music, gold salvation sound,
By his song, my interests bound.

I’m stalling in the whirling world,
Caught by notes the night unfurled.
The ribbons of a man’s whole life,
Woven deep with grief and strife.

Their heavy mourning turns my head.
My steps fall short, emotions bled.
The sting of salt, a breath too quick,
This rose-like song, by thorns am pricked.

But all go bounding blindly by,
Too ignorant to wonder why,
In world so full with useless din,
With violent discord, cheap chagrin,
This man creates a somber sound
That lets my thoughts in music drown.