At the village square
Beside the circular fountain
Of crying,
praying
angels-

He plays.

His eyes of pure white vision,
are squeezed shut
to taste the full experience
With his ears.

His fingers are long
And deft.
His touch is gentle and loving,
Caressing the strings.

Each individual digit
carries its incorrigible responsibility
With dignity.

He stands proud.
And tall.

Yet lost
And small,
while he plays.

They stop to listen.
From time to time.

At varying intervals,
the jingle of coins thrown
at his feet
adds discord.

In his bliss
He performs of sorrow.

In his sorrow,
He plays of joy.

Of joy he
Acts out love and
lust.

He plays perfectly.

In turn they are enchanted
To hear his
spellbinding beauty;
To see at a whim,
Scenes and imagery
Captured by listening.

By hearing, they see
What he sees.

He plays endlessly.

Lamento,
Festivo,
Dolcissimo.

Of bittersweet memories,
Of sadness and tears,
Of intense passion,
Of great regret and pain,
Immense fear and pleasure.

The blind violinist weeps
At the visions.
He plays his visions
With clarity and
Unerring precision.

Tenderly,
he strokes each chord with care.

Sul tasto,
Legato.

The vigilant wind whistles,
The shrill air breathes past,
Inside and out expertly carved maple woods;
This lush, green forest sacrificed as his violin.

Col legno.

The strings are leaves.
The strings are strands of fine cobweb
from the martyred trees.
The strings will be whatever he wants them to be,
Whatever invaluable scene
He wishes it for them to see.

The sound that passes
through the hollow shell are
beyond the price of words. .

Liberamento.

He plays.

Forte.

He plays.

Sweating.

He plays.

Tremoloso.

He plays-

Too quickly.

Sautille.

He lets
his fingers recklessly jump
and slide across the strings
in a wild frenzy.

He plays.

Like a man possessed.
Like a convict overcome
by the sweetness of freedom.
Hot, burning friction
Causes paper cuts to bleed.

He plays.

For too long.

His heart continues to pump in agony;
Continues to scream for mercy-
No more,
No more!

But play, violinist,
For my delight.

Play violinist!

And he does,
so willingly.

And is deathly entranced.

Marcato.

Fermata.

His final bow consists
of the end of a well-timed beat,
And aching fingers
Drop tragically in mid-rhythm .

Silence.

Be still.

Cease.

To be.

Violinist.

- 08/05/03