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
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