[ I dont often write poems that rhyme, and those that I do often come out less than perfect.But I find this one quite satisfactory, so read on, I hope you like it.]
There once was a violinist who played on the street
The tunes he brought forth were calming and sweet;
When he played, he played with his soul,
The music made him content, it made him whole.
There were may others on the street and they were at war,
Fighting each other, competing for
Supremacy, but our violinist knew not how to play
Their game, so they sneered at him everyday.
They said ''Your songs are for peasants, ours are extraordinary''
Soon, even his audience believed him be plain ordinary.
As the taunts continued and his listeners decreased,
His sorrow, his grief, were on an increase.
Day turned to dusk, he continued to wallow
In sadness, even his melodies followed:
His music and self-confidence suffered a bruise
From jazz, he started playing the blues!
One day as he considered giving up music altogether,
All of a sudden he was greeted by a strange feller.
Even though it was summer, he wore a dark cloak;
Before the violinist could, he spoke
''I've been down this street hearing all of you play,
Only your music stuck in my head the whole day.
I want to learn to play the violin,
Playing this fine instrument has always been
A dream of mine, before I became a geologist;
I'll pay in advance if you insist!"
The violinist replied, "why me?
I'm not the only one on this street, in fact there are three"
Cloak-man shook his head," Your notes strike me as soft and true,
Please, teach me to play like you."
And from the folds of his cloak he produced a violin case of tartan
The violinist sighed," all right, but be warned, I train like a Spartan.
Dont expect this venture to be overly fun"
Cloak-man just smiled," Then it shall be done."
So, the two men practised all week
Unknowingly, in each other a comrade they did seek.
In the morn there were lessons, by noon they harmonised
By the progress of his student, the violinist was surprised.
Between the occasional praise and the constant reprimand,
Cloak-man's mentor became his friend.
While the sun was up they played about love and old glories,
When the sun set, they exchanged life stories.
One day the violinist asked under the fading sun,
" There are so many instruments, why'd you choose this one?"
His student shrugged," Some music is jarring, their instruments a waste,
Some music is way too fancy for my taste!"
Both conversed till the first spills on moonlight
Then they packed their wares and called it a night.
They parted ways, unaware of the plans of fate-
The next day, the violinist woke up late.
When he reached the street, he felt something wrong,
By this time, the air should have been filled with song.
Instead, all the other musicians had crowded near,
On some of their faces he caught the glint of a tear.
Their leader, a pianist, spoke," We're sorry to say
That while you slumbered, your pupil passed away.
He was heading here, but was far from us,
So we couldnt reach him when he came under the bus."
The pianist sucked in a breath,
"When we did, he was already at the door of death.
With his last words he told us what to do;
He made us promise we give this to you."
The crowd parted like a curtain to reveal a young cellist
Who handed him the tartan case of a certain geologist.
For the next fortnight the violinist did grieve,
But as days passed by, more did he believe
That his friend was in a better place,
That his soul rested beyond the Golden Gates.
The violinist smiled at the thought of Cloak-man in heaven
Enrapturing the angels with a golden violin.
Unbeknownst to him, his confidence had healed,
When he realised this, it was like a mystery unveiled.
After a month he returned to the street;
His music was once again soft and sweet.
When he grew sad, he would look at the tartan case
And he would be consoled by his friend-in-a-better-place.
He thanked the stars that he could meet
Someone who believed he was the best on the street;
As long as the violinist held onto his violin
He was never truly lonely again.
So while he had lost a comrade
His music never let him be sad.
As a last thought to you my friend,
Learn from the violinist, death is never truly the end.
-Natsu Y. Tatashi
