To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what parts of this I own. I wrote it at 2 in the morning last night…I mean...today. Yeah. Hey, it's not angst! Oh, and the Spanish roughly means "When you watch the world, watch the whole world, and you see that everything is together."
~*~
…Cuando miras el mundo
Miras todo el mundo
Y ves que todo es junto…
The man sits on the corner of South Street. He as been there for all of time. He is ageless. His guitar is like a relic- weathered and worn, but beautiful. He plays it like it is a treasure. He is there every day, in the snow and the rain. No one ever sees him move or rest. He sings. His music is wrenched from the bottom of his soul; sometimes he cries as he plays. His only language is Spanish. Mostly, though, his songs are without words of that language, or any other that we are used to. They are of a language that comes from the very core of the earth. They are of a language that is spoken by the heart.
It wasn't the language of his homeland that attracted the boy, though. It wasn't the mystery of this man, with his black beret and his old guitar. It wasn't even his music. It was the singer's eyes that the Spanish newsboy loved. It was almost as though he could see beyond appearances and into the pure souls of everything. The boy believed that he could.
After he finished selling, he would sit in front of the singer for hours on end. The man's brown eyes seemed to see everything, but never judge. The boy was fascinated. He wondered if he could ever learn that perfection, that mastery of life. He watched the man more than he watched his fingers flying across the strings. He watched the man's gaze. He watched his eyes, which seemed to speak more than his music did. They spoke of acceptance and of all the knowledge in the world. The boy loved the way his expression never faltered, how his mood only changed for his music, nothing else.
They never exchanged a word. The man never acknowledged him with a glance, only gave him the same calm, accepting look he gave the rest of the world. The boy idolized him, and loved him, and wondered at him just the same. Every day for years he would come to watch and marvel at his wisdom, and maybe even learn some for himself.
The man sits on the corner of South Street. He has been there for all of time. He is ageless. His guitar is like a relic- weathered and worn, but beautiful. He plays it like it is a treasure. He is there every day, in the snow and the rain. No one ever sees him move or rest. He is a blind Spanish man, and he sings.
…Cuando miras el mundo
Miras todo el mundo
Y ves que todo es junto…
~*~