Along Ermou Street, the shopping mile of Athens, I came across this man, filling the city with the sound of his hand organ. I had passed him numerous times already, admiring his tranquil air.
Never begging for attention, yet gladly giving it to those who woke to his tunes. His notes were lofty but grounded by a melancholy woe.
He pushed his song, that was without complaint, along the cobblestones, its shadow cradled by its light.
For the world to hear that pain doesn’t equal suffering.
That contrast helps the lazy eye to see.
When I approached, offering a coin in gratitude, a smile was flowing forth, dancing around his eyes and mouth. To the tune, he knows so well.
Only a moment, fleeting, dead the instant it was born. But just enough – to last a life.