A wizened man, an old, old man
His gait is slow, yet walks as best he can
The train turns, the floor unstable,
Yet he stands, as if to tell a fable
He lifts a violin, an áged instrument like he,
He lifts his chin, as if to let us see,
His unshaved face, his parchment skin, and wrinkled clothes,
Then with a start begins to play,
Telling with his melodies more than words can say
The tone is light, yet missing a slight harmony,
For there is no mindless joy in his melody
His two songs suit him, like his violin,
Both pleasant to the ear, but out, no longer in
He stops, he played too long, but not enough,
And reaches for something with his right hand rough
A cup, which he holds out and walks the train car ‘round
How could this be, to myself I sob,
Did someone, him of his small fortune rob?
This is not right, I think, and do the least I can
I follow him, and drop some coins into the cup for the man
He looks at me, and whispers, “merci”
No family who his destitution see?
He shuffles back, more ringing of the coins
It seems to me a slightly cheering noise,
For maybe he will have a hearty meal,
Or another check for his rent seal
Still, this is not right, I know
As the train stops and he moves to go
He should be reading in a rocking chair, or sleeping
Surrounded by his offspring, and never seeking,
Spare change, and giving, his soul to those who hardly care
Did he live his youth and pay his fare,
To in old age, deprived of stability and rest
Be forced to live on love and mercy, so rare, thus, and, the best