He walked up those dingy dark stairs
A spanish guitar strapped to his tired shoulder, safe in its old worn hard case
Nails, long unkempt, at the edges of his beautiful tapering fingers.
And I pictured him younger, sitting on a wooden stool
Flashlights on him
While his fingers created magic on those six nylon strings tied to the hollow wood.
He played with fervour; an indescribable passion
A sweat drop trickled down his brow, as he hit those perfect chords
Those back breaking practice sessions, all culminating in the performance of a lifetime...
I heard a door creak sadly on its hinges
I saw his frail silhouette, against the door of his studio
Hunched back. Tired. Of waiting for the world. To recognise. Him. His art. His talent.
And I strained my ear as he walked in
Listening for some signs of the guitarist I had just seen
But all I heard was the groan. Of a tired old chair.
Dear guitarist, I said, won’t you play me another piece?
Won’t you revive the magic in your finger tips?
I waited. But all that I heard was silence.