The Violinist

   There once was a man who could play the violin. He was very good and very talented, playing the instrument as if it were an extension of himself. But he never made it big; he wasn't offered a spot on any orchestras or offered a record deal. He remained unrecognized, playing from his perch on a corner in beautiful Venice. His notes would float through the air and haunt it with their lilting, mournful tunes, drifting through windows and into shops. And still, the violinist's talent remained unrecognized save for coins tossed into the case by passerby.
   Years passed and still the violinist played nightly on his corner. But times had grown hard and he now relied on the coins and charity of those who listened. There wasn't much but he somehow scrounged enough to scrape by day to day.
   And then the final blow fell. He had to sell his violin.
   It was as if he sold part of himself to that pawn shoppe. Or his soul. The money earned from turning over his most constant companion, his most beloved possession, enabled him to eat for a few days. But before he knew it, he was back on the corner, now begging for change rather than playing for it. But no one paid him any heed. They were all struggling and had nothing to spare, so the violinist suffered in silent starvation.
   Weeks passed and he didn't leave that corner. He was a violinist of unparalleled skill and ability but had lost the thing that set him apart. He no longer played a violin but sawed his bow across his wrists.

Reviews

P.s. Questa poema / storia hai scritto profondamente giusto, con aspetti proprio bene, per uno di non è di Italia, I miei complimenti.
~ Elisa Laura

If the true translation in a Venetian is lost, his Venetian strings will not play... they are intoxinated by his needs to get famous, and rich... However he could win whole Venice in tears, in front of him ~ A wise lesson, to be not to greedy!