by Walter William Safar
There is such a silence in the Vienna Opera
That you can hear even the quietest of Mozart's notes,
As if the city's elite has found its shepherd.
You can't hear the quietest of voices, just humble silence
And the occasional sigh of awe.
Oh, people, he ended up in an unmarked grave,
And look at them kneeling in front of him as if he was a king,
I think to myself while crystal tears
Slide down a dark face on this winter night.
It must be Mozart crying in anguish.
Yet, I'm not so much worried by his bitterness up there,
As by our empty hat down here,
As if ghosts pass us by,
Ghosts of those who threw Mozart into an unmarked grave,
But me and my black friend aren't thinking
Of putting our trumpets into worn-out leather sheaths,
Because the sad ballad warms the heart of the cold winter.
Someone might say that the two of us
Look like we just walked out of a black and white movie,
Not as much due to the color of our skins,
But due to our ancient clothes and music.
In this cold winter's night,
The good old blues wakes the nostalgia
In many walkers,
But there's no coin to sing in the old hat,
Just some black spider starting to weave its silky home.
We're not as worried by the empty hat
And our friend diligently building its new home,
As by the empty bottle.
When winter kisses you, you're bound to cry crystal tears, brother,
And so it's time to stretch our frozen legs,
Find some old hole
Where the poor heal their wounds with liquor
And good old blues.
Last updated May 11, 2012