The Opera Singer
Beauty in cities
Can appear as miracles
At any odd time
Within the busy city of New York
I walked along a nearly empty street,
And though a winter chill bit through my work
There was no snow to see the prints of feet.
I trudged along the filthy side-walk's length
To search for some odd hope within the cold-
And when I'd thought despair had sapped my strength,
Up came a man who sang with voice of old.
He had a long black coat and clean, white scarf,
Perhaps he was preparing for a show,
But what I thought were waves upon the wharf
Was deep, operatic song, adagio.
I still remember him with pure delight,
And love for life he gave that New York night.
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