He sings of a broken heart, of unrequited love, of a life long ago, far away, in Sonora, Mexico. He’s physically spent, diminished, crippled, and uses a wheelchair, unconcerned about where he's going, resigned to where he is.
He sings plaintively, at the top of his lungs, non-stop, everyday, down the street from Union Square, on the corner of Post & Praying for a miracle. He sings acapella, his voice rising above the din of the street, bittersweet, mixing the pungent smell of depletion with prestige. He sings across from Cartier and Christian Dior, his melody echoing off Harry Winston’s locked glass door, what sparkles in those windows is not what sparks his songs. It’s hard living this way, but harder back home, far better here even though he's alone. Before his body was worn and depleted he worked long shifts in places with faces he no longer remembers, now he just shares verses learned over all the years. Back then he sang and played guitar, sang love songs and glad songs, his voice no better but stronger and full of conviction. Now, there’s no guitar, no strings attaching him to anything, just his raspy older voice and a lot of sadder songs reminiscent of home. Most people hustle right by, avoiding his eyes, invisible other than for his voice rising high, melding softly into the city’s pulsing vibe. No matter, he keeps singing his repertoire of songs, mostly sad ones, occasionally lamenting a love lost, all blurring together into one long melancholy tune wafting through a cold, blind city blanketing it with a little warmth.
Really like this one Rich! Reminds me of the saying….there, but for the grace of God, go I!
Thank you for this beauty!