There is no song, no music, no opera…
A lady sings at the corner of the street.
Holding a stick and sometimes a drum.
No chimes, no violin, no lyrics
Just the beating drums.
If at all she sings,
There is no one to huddle around.
None to hear her cantillate,
None to discuss the dissonance.
She still goes on till the sun sinks,
At times a penny or two
Some one throws it at her feet
But none in gratitude.
Sometimes I see a bird,
Hopping beside her cow.
I wonder if they know,
That she sings aloud.
Or do they know she does
And silently walk by her.
For the love that her solo showers,
Only they could know.
We walk like the deaf and the blind,
She cannot hear her self.
Still she knows she sings.
A song we don’t comprehend….
There is no song, no music, no stage
For her, from where she stands
Opera is the world…