I pass a man many days,
a passion for the music he plays.
His audience a sea of spinning cars,
or just as well, the midnight stars.
He lifts the bow high in the air,
never charging fee or fare.
Next song is playing,
will you be staying?
This man I do not know,
I pass him going to and fro.
He sits on a chair and plays his fiddle,
my car passes,
the riddle of his fiddle.
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Writing opens up a world within a world. It allows a person to catch a glimpse of something they may have never noticed. The old man with the fiddle was very old, and to him, the world was his audience. To the world, he was just another old man.