Wearied World

            Every Sunday evening, he would be there. People knew there wasn't much happening on Sunday evenings. People like him. But Sunday evenings was all he could get, and so Sunday evenings he would take. This Sunday evening was different, he could feel it. He could see it in the faces of the people hurrying by, smell it in the coffee shop's brew, hear it in his strings. There was a piece playing at the nearby theatre tonight, and the affluence was greater than normal. He was still looking for his song. It hadn't called him yet, and he never played unless the song called him. It wasn't very polite otherwise. And so he waited at his usual spot, propped up on a plastic bucket which had once contained paint, or bleach. He couldn't be sure.
            Eventually, he heard a low human rumble, making its way forth from the long and wide hallway, the sound reverberating off the marble floors. Then he heard the song calling him. It was a sweet sound, so very sad, so very true. And so, as the rumbling grew louder, he heard it less, and stood up. He pulled out his violin from his case, all tuned and ready as it always is. He drew his bow, and closed his eyes.
            The moment his bow touched the violin's string, the music no longer called to him, but flowed through him. It flowed through him, to the strings, and forth to the world. Through his closed eyes, he could see it all. He could see the mesmerizing ribbons twirl and twirl in the air, dyeing it a myriad of colors, from deep burgundy to a piercing blue. Then everything drooped, as the music cried. It mourned for all, for everything, took in all the pain and dissolved it. The poignant melody resonated in the hall, vibrating in his whole body swaying it to its rhythm. This song sang of the world, for the world. It was a heartfelt cry, yet also a subtle reproach. After what felt to him like an eternity spent too fast, his bow drew the last note painfully, drawing it off and letting it die on its own. He stood there for a moment, his eyes still closed and still seeing so far away, watching as the colors faded. Then he opened his eyes, to the usual sight of people walking past in a hurry.
            But this was not to be, as he was met with roaring applause, whistling, cheering, and most of all, crying. Men, women, children were crying, some with a single tear gently trickling down their cheeks, others bent over in wracking sobs. One child tugged on his mother's sleeve.
            "Momma! Momma!" he called. "Wasn't that great? This song is like that play we just saw."
            "Yes it was, honey. That man plays beautifully."
            And he wept. He wept for these poor fools.