He was walking towards the stage with staggering steps,
The stage hand offered to help him tread, but then he was just waved off,
I am not dead yet, the old man whispered.
It has been a long time since he has held the maple and weighed the chrome,
And he is not a person to stop.
Although his hair is almost snow white with strands of peppered black,
He knows what he wants, he knows what purpose there is for him to be here.
His eyes are now failing him even his hearing is no longer as good,
But in his heart beats a tune, comprehensible only to him.
For the last time perhaps, he said.
Hi missed working out the bow over the crystallized resin, the smell of
Hardened wood and rusted steel.
He went towards the center of the enormous stage with only one thought,
For the last time perhaps, I would once again listen to my heart.
He tuned the tensioned strings, and when he heard the distinct sound of the notes,
He played, continuously, simultaneously:
Bach, Vivaldi, Ma. He knew them all.
And then, silence.
He stood from where he was, held his instrument with his right hand and pegged the bow between his index and middle finger, and bowed.
His eyes are failing him, and his hearing likewise. But he hears the vivid sound of applause.
Then whispering, he said, Now again, for the first time in my life and my last, I am alive. Now I am ready to die.
