As the dawn breaks
he is there
above the empty streets below
upon the crest of his lodging
beside the weathered chimney
a drifting composing shadow
a silhouette that fractures the glow of day
playing the mystical notes
Before the first bird can utter it's delicate chirp
he is there
dancing in a song that has never been heard
notes float sweet
like trickles of the morning dew
on the currents of the sailing breeze
the constant conducting anomaly
the ever present fixture
that greets the curious and peering eyes
with each gracious blessing
that is the birth of a new day
When the sleeping city wakes
he is there
flooded by the waking imprint
of the unending harmonies
that serenade his being
and are tethered to his strumming core
lost in the music
of a madman's melody
for such is the way of those
who heard the call of the rooftop
And so the day comes to an end. The sun begins to retreat into the calm of the escaping day and still he is there. For the music he hears falls deep into the canals of his ear, echoes only he can hear, and so he plays. These notes that come to him on the whispers of an angel's lullaby, drifting on the waves that flutter under heavens domain. The bow moves across the strings as they tremble in the melody made of the mind. Time stands still for him for all there is, all that he has become, is the music. How gentle it falls, like raindrops upon the window sill after the exiting storm. How tender it falls, like the chirping of the birds that call the village to rise, how warm it falls, like the first slivers of the sunlight that caress the sleeping eyes. He is the essence of what creation is. He is the raw untouched and untainted song that plays from the heart. For he walks the corridors where silent tunes are hummed by the soul of man. As the night prepares to make it’s entrance he retires from his lofty perch. To sleep and dream of the next day when again he shall climb the ladder and wait for the strike of the first note. For this is his destiny, his right, and what he must do. For there are those who must follow the path that calls them and he is no different. For such is the way for the man who rides the rooftop known simply as
, , , The Fiddler
Thoughts of a Single Man © 2013 tm
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem