Why We Cry Hearing the Theme Tune of Schindlers List
It’s the elephant,
the huge shadow,
the gray bulk of gray in the room,
and it’s such a small threadbare room,
four bunks deep
barely five feet wide.
Wood lice are eating a cheap village fiddle,
it was discarded in the rush
to meet this moment at the end of the tracks;
for many the ride ends in open iron doors,
but here clapperboard hatchways yawn
and close,
and those that go out and return
shelter no thoughts of steps taken
without instruction.
The musician in the spotlight
could not have known any of this,
for her an elephant is beautiful
and perfect as it is.
yet she cried at the rehearsal
when her lips were scratched
by these fretful notes.
I am watching the video,
orchestra and audience;
seeing the camera scan
faces caught off guard.
Everyone is leaning
into a memory
where violins were once
as common as handkerchiefs,
rags used to blot and dab
at sadness,
but this music is a river
that will not dry up.
Only the bored taxi drivers
outside the concert hall
happily leave this repository
of anguished beauty.
For those going home
there are prayers
and perhaps tears for the tears
that did not fall
when they should have.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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