The old man sits very still,
As if awakening in the woods.
Grey hair, grey eyes,
His shadowed face hints of stone.

She hums and she sings
Feet tapping time,
Fingers flying over the strings.

The songs she sings
In the style of his youth.
Songs of protest, of pain and despair.
The conflicts of people long lost.

She sings of passion.
Of pain, of fear and of angst.
Too young for experience,
Her songs stolen from other people's lives.

The old man shudders.
His pain well earned.
Re-living those times.
Minds, Lives, Souls, all lost.

Wars fought for others.
Some hot and some cold,
Some weak and tepid slaughters,
Wars that used his youth,
Stole his innocence,
Buying freedom for some,
Buying economic security for others.

The singer re-awakens that turmoil.
Reactionary street revolutionaries,
Dividing his people, killing his peers.
Spending them like the small change
That fills the street singer's cup.

"Enough", she laughs brightly.
"You've been patient."
"Hearing my new songs."
"I'll repay your kindness,
with one of the old songs."

Familiar notes, a song often played.
A lilting voice, innocently wavering.
The old man sits silently,
Voice stilled by his pain.

She delivers salvation, redemption.
She delivers tears.
Tears that roll silently
Down his stoney face.

The old man sits very still,
As if awakening in the woods
To find a bird on his chest.
In woods where he once hid,
Hunted by others.