Three Strings

Poetry by Neil Lejoy
Photo by Katarina Bubenikova

A conceivable, foreseen prodigy,
the young boy, thought so easily.
Grew up, with the first three strings,
a naïve mind, holds the notes he sings.

Unceasingly concealed, he strum,
still the happy notes, obliviously glum.
While they mock and scoff,
he still played, the strings so soft.

But then, time passed,
the instrument, was left in the dark.
He had to face life,
for it was no more, the jollying joy.

Different now, when I play it in sadness,
the instrument asks, ‘Who left?’
Envy, Anger, and Disquietude,
those the strings now, which I tune.

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