An Indonesian Voice (2) – The Street Musician

By Rod Pallister

A city running headlong into the valley of insanity,

The capital of wary negotiating and hidden deals,

Towers of steel a testimony to unchecked growth,

Working humanity striving within cages of stress.

There is a forgotten minority, unwelcome to many,

Forbidden to enter the offices of greed and success,

They do not belong within the powerhouse of a country,

Striving towards recognition and reluctant respect,

For they are hiding below the surface of confusion,

Unreality of wealth translated into the reality of…

Nothingness, an existence of desperation,

Unseen by most, a reality for the silent few.   

Deep in the south of the city, a place of refuge,

Unknown to many, the homeless drift in,

Warm lights beckoning the weary and helpless,

A place where a key to laughter and friendship…

Is discovered, a key given by the guilty ones,

To those who home is a concrete graveyard,

Hidden from reluctant eyes and silent ears,

They thankfully embrace their sanctuary of safety.

Slowly music flows in a river of sound.

The beat of reggae stampeding into the night,

Faces flushed in the passion of rhythm,

Concentration etched into tired faces,

The band of musicians of unknown origin,

Belonging for a brief moment of celebrity.

Clutching a guitar long past its beginning,

Hunched into submission, long fingers…

Stroking strings of emotion into harmony,

His voice a testimony to smoke and destitution,

Striving to lead the band of fellow musicians,

Each a legacy of a lost silent civilization,

Awakened to the passion of the moment,

He growing in stature, voice pursuing the listeners.

Flowing hair, cascading in tides of confusion,

Feet nervously tapping the rhythm of song,

He knows not a celebrity, only the nameless,

But here in this arena of sound he is…

An icon of rebellion and the soul of a past era,

Capturing the message donated by the song,

Lyrics defying convention, chasing his dreams,

His body in tune with captured audience.

Born in the center of the island of Java,

Close to a palace of forgotten kings,

Chosen to wander the streets of loneliness,

His narrow face shaped by a path of apathy,

Haunted eyes wary of the unwary stranger,

Suspicion his passport to the solace of safety,

Forgiveness a foreigner within his posture.

The crescendo of sound reaches a conclusion,

Exhaustion replacing the fulfillment of music,

Gently laying his silent guitar beside him, he…

Waits for the adulation of the crowd below,

For him no pride has found a place of fame,

Only the recognition of his humble contribution,

To the warmth of laughter and comradeship,

A haven where the needy offer their gifts of love.

rod_pallister@yahoo.co.uk