Tweet
WELCOME TO BERLIN
It’s not a terrorist attack.
No teenagers roll through the station scoring havoc
just a large man who strolls into the concourse
carrying a double bass. Standing tall, he strums
the opening bars of The Ode to Joy.
Heads turn as a woman with a violin
tucked beneath her chin joins the bass player.
A piccolo, flute and oboe meet as if by chance,
woodwind notes flowing into and around the crowd.
Weaving his way through, a bassoonist blows
into the length of his instrument, his eyes
partly on the crowd, partly turned inward
where his music grows.
From Track #7, an unassuming blonde meanders
singing. Dá da da dá . . .
A tenor in black jeans and a hoodie joins her,
his voice soaring over the rumble of trains.
Smiles open up faces to faces.
Families converge.
The full chorus assembles, making music
to make everyone stop, necks and heads swiveling.
A woman in a wheelchair cups one hand into another.
A burly dad lifts his child onto his shoulders
so she can look about and witness
the fervor Joy brings.
It’s not a terrorist attack.
No teenagers roll through the station scoring havoc
just a large man who strolls into the concourse
carrying a double bass. Standing tall, he strums
the opening bars of The Ode to Joy.
Heads turn as a woman with a violin
tucked beneath her chin joins the bass player.
A piccolo, flute and oboe meet as if by chance,
woodwind notes flowing into and around the crowd.
Weaving his way through, a bassoonist blows
into the length of his instrument, his eyes
partly on the crowd, partly turned inward
where his music grows.
From Track #7, an unassuming blonde meanders
singing. Dá da da dá . . .
A tenor in black jeans and a hoodie joins her,
his voice soaring over the rumble of trains.
Smiles open up faces to faces.
Families converge.
The full chorus assembles, making music
to make everyone stop, necks and heads swiveling.
A woman in a wheelchair cups one hand into another.
A burly dad lifts his child onto his shoulders
so she can look about and witness
the fervor Joy brings.
Comment