By Sylvia Pacheco (c) 2013
Confined to a singular tower
The artist, in the midnight hour
Plays his fiddle and wails and moans—
He plays his fiddle for his fiddle alone.
From his birth he was selected
For the path of the Rejected
His mother died while birthing him—
What a terrible way to begin.
Confined to a single room,
The artist plays a lonely tune
And, never to make the ladies swoon—
He serenades and woos the moon.
All his life he was an outcast
Walking streets, head bent, eyes downcast
Ideas swarming in his head—
Thoughts never to be heard or said.
Confined so, he reflects on life
And watches birds sing in mid-flight
Oh if only he could fly—
He’d sing until his throat went dry.
His fiddle and he, he and his fiddle
Nothing in the world could belittle
The sweet sadness that it brings—
When gliding horse hairs across strings.
Confined to a single bed,
His fiddle lying near his head,
The artist dreams of thoughts he had
And thinks, “How peaceful…” and then—
[Image is a crop of “Netherlandish Proverbs,” a painting by Breugel.]