17 November 2012
Along the sidewalk, Where the river flows, Pedestrians walk; come and go. The wispy branches of the oak, Drift as if provoked, And the raindrops from the sea, Fall and fall continuously.
A young musician, Plays on his violin, Hoping someone might drop a coin into his tin, But nobody is bothered, Not at kind heart, Not a soul appreciates his musical art.
He plays all day, Except that one evening in may, That time he spends to visit his mother's gravestone, Where he cries upon the name plate of chrome. He puts out the most beautiful bouquet of roses, Wishing she could smell them as he composes, The violin's strings tangle and ting, The delicate minor harmonies elegantly sing.
How his mother loved him, How she protected him. Even when they had not a penny to spare, Her warmth with him she would share. She would beg for food, Pleading for just a few pennies for her son, To feed the churning stomach of her loved one. But mercy was given only to the child, But to the weak mother- none.
She would feed him with anything she could afford, Not thinking about her health. She would smile down to her toddler, But deep inside her pain would wander, Striking her stomach so hard, The poor woman fell to the ground.
And that evening, That day; in may, When his mother fell Ill and sick, With one last blink she said: "Son bury me in the cemetery dear, And never forget the love we share, You will meet me in heaven one day, You will be fine, So let go my hand, My dear son, And never forget me. I love you, love you son..."
The boy cried, Until his eyes were dry, And buried her were she asked, Long time since then past, But her words to him still last. He lives, Poor boy, All alone. And plays on his violin, Hoping someone might drop a coin into his tin.
A Young Musician (improved): • Opuss № I