Scrolled on a page in the darkest of blood,
Is the sweat of an artist, a staining ink flood,
Bent over a page, the quill tightly gripped,
Into his heart, the pointy end's dipped.
To an idiot passer, to an untrained mind,
Upon his page, only notes will they find,
But in that dusty room, upon that smugged page,
Is a cascade of happiness, sorrow and rage.
Beneath each sharp, behind every half note,
Lies the pain and the love which the artist wrote,
Though his eyes grow weary, he picks up his flute,
To the fading sun, gives the final salute.
And, oh, to hear the scribbles come alive,
What kind of sorrow this artist did contrive,
What joy filled the ink he left on the page,
No longer a broken, weary old man,
The artist flourished as the tune through him ran,
Through his flute flowed a beauty so bitterly sweet,
Through his fingers an anger filled with darkest heat.
How much farther must you look for a symbol or sign,
Than the black ink of the page, than the circle and line.
