Poetry on the move.
Last night in Milan, a man stood in the cold
But with his violin, he played with his soul
His talent was immense
His passion intense
He held his passers-by spellbound
Despite the chill, we gathered till sundown
As he unleashed each piece of music
Our hearts were stirred as if by magic
Eventually, reluctantly, we had to leave
But eternally grateful for his gift.
(Inspired by the busker, I immediately penned this poetry)