The Old Musician

In a small town where memories linger,  

an old musician drags his guitar,  

strings worn but heart still full,  

each note carries tales of years gone by.  

 

He wanders through sunlit streets,  

chasing laughter from yesterday,  

but the wallet his promise once held,  

is now empty as silence.  

 

Until he arrives in Greece,  

where the sun bathes the whitewashed walls,  

and a lady, gracious yet firm,  

offers a room in her sprawling house.  

 

"Help me," she says with a soft smile,  

yet it hides a weight,  

a gentle push as she hands him a broom,  

an invitation that feels more like a demand. 

 

He strums his guitar,  

the melody dances with the dust,  

but her eyes flicker with urgency,  

"Do this, or take your music and leave." 

 

Inside, a duel of hearts rages,  

the pull of strings versus the grind of chores, 

sacred art or tedium,  

what does love for music even cost?  

 

Yet, every chord that sings of freedom,  

alongside each wash of dishes and sweeping,  

leaves him at a crossroad,  

a stage where every choice weighs heavy.  

 

In the still night, he finds solace,  

strumming under stars that listen in,  

whispers of what could be,  

and the cost of silence.  

 

Life in a big house feels hollow,  

as the guitar hangs silent by the door,  

longing for the echo of applause,  

but held back by the weight of her dreams.  

 

He wonders if it’s time,  

to follow notes that lead away,  

to bear the sting of estrangement,  

rather than trade art for chores.  

 

And as dawn stretches through windows,  

he knows there is not really a choice for him 

but play to obey,  

the song continues, muted and true.