The Lone Violinist
He stands under the golden leaves
Which whisper light and free;
And under the failing light of day,
The lone violinist plays.
He bends his head over the tender strings,
And a melancholy tune there rings.
Silent, with no words to say,
The lone violinist plays.
He sheds a tear believed unseen,
He recalls places fair and green -
And all that he was thrown away -
The lone violinist plays.
He plays for the life that he has lost,
And a heart that's succumbed to frost.
There, still, amid the almond rays,
The lone violinist plays.
Heaven shall not answer his pleas,
Time can't take away the sights he's seen,
Yet, despite a fate so fey,
The lone violinist plays.
He dares not hope, he dares not dream
He cannot hope, he cannot feel,
Yet under the failing light of day,
The lone violinist plays.
His eyes till shine amid the cold,
His fingers are still deft and bold.
Silent, with no words to say,
I quickly look away.
