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...
the music plays
Somewhere
down in the subway
a
slight figure bent and grey
sits
alone on an old crate,
contrasting
reversed shape
reflected
on a saxophone.
Mirrored
images, they meet,
man
and instrument are one
in
harmony complete.
and
always ... the music plays.
In
winter bitter or city heat,
a
thin ankle keeping the beat,
he
transforms every single day
that
dim and drafty passageway
into
a glorious Carnegie Hall.
To
commuters in daily trudgery,
tirelessly,
his notes call
restoring
their energy.
and
always ... the music plays.
The
rushed audience cannot stop
but
worries are instantly forgot,
they
go on, their step made light
worn
faces involuntarily bright,
lips
mouth a remembered song,
eyes
lost in awaken memory.
They
go to where they belong
transported
by the melody.
and
always ... the music plays.
For
a people's musician so true
not
a single artistic review,
no
star billboard, no eulogy,
small
change is his only fee.
But
in touching the multitude
a
much greater reward maybe,
in
their lift, his gratitude.
It's
his gift, he is happy.
and
always ...
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