Obbligato

A sequel to Art Burglar. This one’s dedicated to Maya Angelou, Walt Whitman, Arthur Conan Doyle, John Keats, all the giants of the past, but is most importantly dedicated to….YOU. Yes, YOU, the one reading this right now. This one’s for you.


There is something you ought to know.
There were greater songs that were written before.

These eternal symphonies of strange coincidences,
The visions, and wonderful chains of events,
Working through generations, building bizarre results
Of billions and billions of pages, which today contend
That no book ever written could comprehend.

In one of those pages, I saw your name,
In the beginning Hymns of your Art
Beneath the thumping heart,
You can hear a music playing inside,
Rising and falling like tides, from dawn,
As you held on to your mother’s finger,
Into the fading Golden Hue that hides your wrinkles.
But the light of the Secret Morning Star still twinkles
In your eye, as we sing your lullaby.
If you translate that with your violin,
No tomb could ever bury the song within.

But it’s hard to even grabble for your strings.
There’s music on your mind, but your throat can’t sing.
Maybe your melody can’t compare to the symphonies of the past,
Or the silence beyond. Maybe your voice couldn’t last.
The composition is fragmented, the drafts are unfinished,
Scattered in the darkened room. Your veloce is diminished.
So much unheard. So much unsaid.
The agony is unbearable, but the skin is unbled.

The curtains become your cocoon,
As light begins to fade by the end of the noon.
What difference does it make if one note is gone
While there are billions of others to carry on?

ahem

The song has one note LESS.
It makes a WORLD of difference.

When you skip ONE note, the silence tells
That something is missing. Something fell
Off the symphony, which is now incomplete.
Something that could’ve changed the tune of the sheet.

Maybe they’ll forget you, or maybe they’ll doubt
The brilliance of your score they COULD do without.
Maybe they’ll forget your efforts, your passion and zeal,
But they will never forget how you’ve made them feel.

Because the gentleness of Adagio can stir the soul
Just as much as the swiftness of Grandioso.

So, go on. Let the curtains slide off the gloom.
Break away from your cocoon and transcend your tomb.
Give new strings to your instrument, and play gently,
And let it cost all that you are, while it sets you free.
In the rise and fall of your bow, there WILL be recurring questions,
Not all of them have answers. And some are just directions.
So play along for the music’s own sake,
And play! And play! Even if one of the strings BREAK…

There will be crushes, there will be heart-breaks,
There will be rushes, there will be mistakes,
There will be distance above, and the unnoticed near,
There will be love, there will be fear,
There will be trust, there will be treason,
There will be dust, clouding all reason.
There will be courage, there will be retreat,
There will be victory, there will be defeat,
There will be hope, there will be despair,
There will be unrelenting zeal, and reasons to care.
And when you climb these walls of colossal size
You will fall. You will fall!
But you will rise.

This is precisely the rhythm that makes you sway.
Three strings are enough for you to play.

There is something more you ought to know.
There were greater songs that were written before.
An eternal symphony, where Spirits of Ages exult
Through generations, building towards one bizarre result:
YOU — A sum total of colors from every hue,
Ever seen, ever heard — it’s all there,
Molded in YOU — with blood, tears and care.
Every scar has a song, every cage is a tale,
Every tear is an invitation to Soul-making’s Vale,
Where so much will be taken, yet so much to give,
Where you will keep on dying, until you love to live.

The research is DONE. The Drafts are due!
Your spirit revised, and your voice is new.
Every song ever written ensured that you are endowed,
So when you pass by me, it ought to make me proud.
Make this moment indelible with the resonance of your page,
An applause is waiting for you to finally come up on stage.

……
There’s something more that you ought to know:
There were greater songs that were written before
Your life was even your own.
Now that you turn the next stone,
Play your greatest score, and carve your lore
In the heart of life, before it walks out the door,
‘Coz you want them to scream for one last “ENCORE!”

Your score will be played again.
New lad, new spirit. But the same violin.

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