The Drunken Boat

I’m Looking for that Violinist

I’m looking for the violinist on the corner,
the romantic beggar, with the hat.
That man with a face — concrete
like the walls of the building
his sweaty back leans against:
the violinist from Dizengoff street,
on the corner of King George,
the violinist in love with Bach,
who’s been performing without his frock coat
all his life,
the one who came from the exile of Siberia
to that in Dizengoff Center.
I’m looking for the violinist on the corner.

I’m looking for the violinist on the corner,
who disappeared without a trace since then.
Since —
when between the torn flesh
the remains of his case were found
and four coins next to a hand.
Also without owners
I’m looking for the violinist on the corner.

I’m looking for the violinist on the corner,
If you see him tell him I’m
looking for him
to reconstruct for him
his glorious exile,
to return it to its original state.
And I — conventional and stubborn as I am
want to see him play again,
let him teach the children of the explosions
that Bach
can’t be exterminated

I’m looking for the violinist on the corner.