Sand and Dust
A Stradivarius violin
he knew he would never own.
Fated to be a pauper player
while he reaped what he had sown.
No, there were worlds that were not for him,
would remain outside the dance.
Stood against the wall where he was pinned,
stabbed by a glittering glance.
This poorly put together pantomime,
cruel circus antiquated with rust,
revue organised by black suited crime
was to him so much sand and dust.
Helicopters could not rescue him,
if the ocean hid his hand.
Followed the flight of the albatross
to be native to no land.
Content with his gypsy violin,
played for lovers and for wine.
His tunes were his horse drawn caravan,
be the weather foul or fine.
These cold chants to oppose the citadel,
lost with the bare ballads of broken trust,
were to him like marks on a prison cell,
to fade away like sand and dust.