the lone fiddler

There's a sillouette on the wall, fiddling, sawing away on his instrument. you'd think his life depended on it. his heart and soul are one with his violin.

standing on the wall, with the ugly, potent factory behind. it's belching who-knows-what from the smoke-stacks. monstrous powerlines stretch over his head, off into the distance.

and he fiddles, and fiddles, pours out his heart with his song, on and on.

his features are invisible, he is just a shadow with the light shining from behind. a black figure, moving, playing...but it's not a game.

there is singing in the background...an odd language, unintelligible. it's all very eastern european, and more human than pain.

can you see it? it moved me, but i don't really know how to describe it.

(my feeble attempt to portray a polish music video i saw recently)