The Man And The Violin Poem by Mohabeer Beeharry

That man, he plays the violin
At the end of my road.
No shelter for his white haired head,
Rain washed, sun burnt.
Eyes sunken and haggard, a lone figure.
Like a radiant sun behind a still veil of darkness
His face shines with patience and a mystic smile.
He does not bother whether as you pass-by
You ring his bowl with a coin.
He does not ask to know how big the world is,
Nor how small is his town.
Every now and then, a piece of newspaper passes him by
Driven desultorily by the wind.
It does not stop.
It does not toss a coin into his bowl either.
It flies pass wild, buzzing non-stop
A flighty language, conflagrating with spits and venom.
At the end of the day,
When with weakness and pain, the knotty hands shake,
Tears in his old eyes, his chest cramped,
The violin squeaks and shivers, uncertain
He lays down his instrument and picks his bowl.
Empty! And yet the whole world has passed by.
The mystic smiles broadens:
Stronger, braver and more illuminating.
A smile of resolution not to lose,
To live above the ash and play on.
Life is a whirlpool, no one can tell
What comes from the churning of it,
He has taught himself.
The bowl is empty, that is his victory.
No heart break! That is his freedom, his strength.
He is the master
Both of the music and his life.
He is the music, he is the violin
And he is the listener.