The Minstrel and the Rubbish

The minstrel and the rubbish To a homeless in N.Y., who had a guitar to keep him company But he that is greatest among you shall be your servant. (Matthew, 23, 11) The rubbish was blown aside by the arid marching of the wind leaving the whole street clear for the minstrel who was crooning his latest composition to the street’s dream-recipients, while the voltage of the wind was going down at intervals under the burden of the unexpected stave. The night was watchful - you’d say she dreaded – lest she bumped into the chords and crush their solitary waving. Breastfeeding music the minstrel was opening up new pathways to the question marks of his melodies. Me, what was I then I still haven’t found. Wind, rubbish, onlooker or something else? The minstrel ’s mute audience, the rubbish, transcended its nature at Time’s attendance register and, after all, it would not have always been rubbish and some of it would have had its own illustrious past, too, and it must have known what it means to have eyes that leave Love as a map to find them back and warmth that has left, as a memorial, its fleeting past, with Hope as its one and only stamp. All alone the minstrel, homeless with his homeless guitar housed his trivial dreams, under the yoke of the obese city’s wind, in his Heavenly Melodies. (translated by the original ‘O ???a??d?? ?a? ta s???p?da’, by the poet, from his book of the same title.)