The Musician

His fingers sailing on the string Arousing enchanting rhythm from sleep Solace to desolate hearts bring And penetrate the craving souls deep Music drifting in the air like perfume Healing wounds like the miracles of Jesus Prevailed serenity torments consume Like a flower’s bloom elegant and gracious Melting like butter the hardened hearts Soothing like balm the anguish and pain Healing the wounds of the suffering’s darts Trickling like rain drops on a sun baked plain Bestowing tranquillity and serenity to soul The onlooker’s hands busy in ceaseless applaud As on the Sitar his magic fingers roll But his life beleaguered and misfortune clawed Would tomorrow's air be perfumed by his music? Would his means promise togetherness of his body and soul? Would anguished souls still crave for the balm of his lyric? Or the hawks of society devour his art as a whole