He sits, head hanging

Old and gaunt

Like a star slowly burning out

Clothed in paper thin rags

Translucent skin delicately covering his skeletal frame

Eyes closed

Tuned in to the sounds of the old cobblestone streets of Barcelona

Hunched over in despair

He is blue

Oh so blue

Dripping in blue

Not the vibrant navy blue

The pale melancholic blue that has sat out in the sun too long

In his wiry fingers, he holds his caramel colored guitar

Brushing softly against the strings of brass

He plays his tragic tune

Over and over he plays

As if compelled by some divine force

Breathing every breath through his instrument of wood

Like time, he is eternal

Playing as the late hours flow into sunrise

Awakening the blue birds with his song