Upon an instrument of strings,

'Upon an instrument of strings,
Fingers I ran,
And music occured'
The musician told me,
An evening after his performance,
Standing I was near Him,
Wishing only to know
How could He create such a show
Of light, love and dreams,
Only through those strings,

His voice lent solemnity
To the hall, empty,
After the show
People had to go
To their homes,
To their own ways,

And the musician was wrapping up
His bags and baggages,
His stringed instrument was there laid
On a cotton cloth, so beautifully red,

I looked at his dropping figure
As he collected little things,
His notes, the stand, the bow,

I looked at his fingers
There music apparently still lingered,
The hall, though empty, had the traces of music too,
And that big door which opened outside
To a street, was letting in the densest dew,

'Got my answer? Did not you?'
The musician asked me,
Looking straight to my eyes,

'Yes...'
I murmured,
'Can I ever be proficient
To create that sense
Of love, light and dreams,
Which You so effortlessly create?'

I asked him,
Almost pleading
To know,

'Why not?
Just get into love
Get into the music of life,
Get just there...'
Saying this,
Carrying his
Instrument of strings,
He started a walk,
To that door
Through which came in
The densest dew,

I just followed him,
That evening.

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