The Solo Pianist
Another Sunday evening at the street-corner
next to the coffee parlour, overlooking the ocean
The solo pianist with desert-lime eyes
sits once-again on the piano chair.
His hair,a Honeysuckle-brown
with a salt and pepper tint
sways in the summer breeze
under the old wrought iron street-lamp.
Passers-by gather in a crowd
and listen to symphonic sounds.
Like on those many yesterdays
when She sat down on the old oak wooden bench
to listen to his baritone voice and melodic tune
Close enough, to capture the glow upon his face
through the soft embrace of a cradle-moon.
His fatigued- hands wear early youth
which match the embers of his heart
His fingers bleed between the keys
of black and white, as crimson red
wakes up the passion-rose inside.
Before each note, within each pause
Its there He thinks of her ..
The one who turned his every page
The brown -eyed ,sun-kissed island girl.
All vibrant colours fill up his mind
Her somber soul He seeks to find
Her shadow still craves to belong
wrapped in his arms and every song.
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