On the streets of Barcelona
he strums his guitar.
Collects pesetas
In a broken jar.
In a ragged shirt,
shorts all torn.
No shoes, no coat
to keep him warm.
On a cold, March night
in the wind and rain,
face to the ground
to hide the pain.
His joints are aching,
his bones are sore
As he sits on a blanket
on the cold, damp floor.
Lost in his music,
deep in thought,
His past life, his loves,
the war he fought.
Memories are blurred,
some almost gone.
Perhaps a relief
as many so wrong.
His fingers are raw
from the steel strings he uses.
Thin legs covered
in sores and bruises.
He plays on and on
as music is his love
and will continue
till he's called from above.
Folks sneer as they pass
unaffected is he
as he hears and he feels
but his eyes cannot see.
|
