The musician and the General
When the General asked him
To pluck a note and pull the string-
It seemed a difficult proposition,
His fingers looking unfed for weeks
Had nothing in them to create a magic
And then all around stood derelict
Houses of his ravaged town...
Rubbles sat on minds and hearts
Of those who survived the Holocaust
And this General with stubble moustache
Wanted him to strike something...
What could be risen out of that sham?
The town ghettoed long ago had no Glam
Only furtive few notes written somewhere
Had faintly distinct a half forgotten repertoire;
Thinking all these he sat on the stool
And made an attempt to play no fool
With the board he knew like his fingers and palm...
Graded into three different steps
He put verse into the ruined build
And made a decoration with added taps
Gentle as they were till reaching the crescendo;
The General kept his eyes closed
All through the session silent as someone
Caught in between hell and heaven,
And when his fingers stopped plying
He just opened to another life
And then gave the weary man his overcoat.
(*Note: loosely based upon a Roman Polanski flick "The Pianist". The poem is reposted here.It was originally written on June 30, 2015)