A Quaint Solitude

       

Rings in the time of celebration and revelry,

And the city dances to the festive tunes,

A souk in the old city decks up to enthrall the shopaholics,

Who throng its stone-paved streets filled with hues of glee and gaity,

An exuberance fills the tranquil cool air of the souk from dawn till midnight,

And the balmy winter noon now shined in all its pomp and glory over each and every niché of the old city,

Amongst this crowded existence, resided a lonely soul,

A tad little boy, in his early teens, played a balsam flute,

His tattered clothes and soleless feet revealed his humble existence.

To earn his daily bread he sat on the dusty street and pumped his tiny heart, whole day,

His melodies strummed the strings of time with reflections of life's bleak reality,

Some passersby dropped a penny or two in his crooked copper bowl,

While some just didn't acknowledge his voice in the market noise,

Still, he continued to play his soul's thoughts with deep devotion,

I wondered such is the reality of life, sharing the same space and time, some relish all luxuries and some just manage to get a meagre morsel,

Still, my heart rejoiced, that despite being privileged, we continue to live in utter loneliness, and what this boy was blessed with was a quaint solitude.