A wooden lute they wielded with ease,
The eager tourists walked past the lilting strains,
But the languid traveller was easy to please.
Blind to their audience, they crooned in a local dialect,
Of the universal feelings of loss and neglect.
The clink of coins rewarded them many a time,
For sharing their sorrow in verse and rhyme.
They bared their souls in an alien tongue,
But after all it was the language of love they sung.
The flaming glow of the setting sun lit up the winter sky,
But the two men sang on with a fiery passion,
Like a bird that had discovered it could fly;
Denied of sight, music had given them vision.