The Guitarist

The sky was wrapped
In a robe of soft clouds.
The forgotten scent of a newborn sun
Lingered yet in the young air.
A sound reached my ears:
The music of his guitar.
On the green grass he sat,
A solitary figure,
Lips curved in an enchanting smile.
Into his eyes gently fell
Unruly locks of hair.
Long, thin fingers moved over his instrument
In an ecstatic dance.
The joy of his heart they released forth,
Clothed as the notes of a happy song.
The wind sang in bliss.
The clouds thundered as if
Praising the skilfully played piece.
My ears rejoiced to hear
The colourful, joyous notes.
My heart leapt with joy,
And danced to the music
That filled my soul.
Uncounted, time went by;
I cared not if ages had passed.
He played the last note
That for many minutes lived
In the speechless air.
He rose, and turned to leave.
The performance was over.
Rain fell upon the earth
In a gentle applause.