The man at the station...

A familiar note drifts past my ear

as I descend the stairs,

It's the note of melancholy

flowing through the strings of his Violin...

 He stands there everyday

holding his voice in his hand,

his eyes closed,

a hint of crease on his forehead,

trying to telling the world his story...

The threadbare coat,

the worn out boots,

the chippings on his violin,

whispers the tale of the seasons gone by...

It was a rainy day as today,

when I heard him the first time.

Eager to beat the rain,

Battling my way out of the crowd...

I stood there frozen in time

and watched him play.

All I could hear is the melody,

shrouding the pain in his eyes,

and the world faded away in distance...

When he stopped,

I looked around to find

the world walking past,

running behind their mundane lives,

just running...

I walked up to him

and dropped few coins before him.

And as I was leaving,

he looked up at me and smiled.

I never forgot that smile

nor could I stop thinking about the note.

He stands there everyday

making people like me stop for a while

and smile,

away from the hollowness of life...