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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=543063" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Musical Identity Crisis</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was a fine guitar.<br>My dearest possession.<br>The tool to escape my life, <br>The life without any prominence or distinction; <br>The life, a mere proof of an existing biological function.<br> <br>The only sense was from the music I understood.<br>The sounds created by those strings over the wood.<br>The notes would drown me to that world of imagination.<br>This was all I had for a fascination.<br>But it was not long that I lost my only passion.<br> <br>The afternoon still survives in my memory, <br>The door bangs open, my uncle standing with a face<br>That gave away his fury, <br>His red eyes, the smell of his presence<br>Corroborated our doubts of his untimely alcoholic indulgence.<br>My mother screamed out Vociferous, <br>But the guitar did not stop.<br> I still don’t know-<br>If the attempt was prosperous<br>Or the musical protest was a flop? <br> <br>The reek came closer, <br>The fingers played louder and faster.<br>The dipsomaniac spoke-<br>My price was settled by the dealer.<br> Enough to meet the addict’s expenditure.<br> <br>The Music stopped for the last time.<br>The guitar was snatched and there ended<br>The play of notes, so sublime.<br> <br>My mother would not let me go.<br>The dirty hands pushed her on the floor.<br>The sight made the anger in me grow<br>The addict had to be thrown out of the door.<br>He walked to my mother and kicked her to cry.<br>I lifted my guitar to give it a different try.<br>The guitar played a sound again<br>But this time it was for no musical gain.<br>The smash to his head made him fall on my feet.<br>The blood on the floor did not make me feel guilty any bit.<br> <br>The Music had ended long back, <br>Now me and my guitar searched the identity rack.<br>It was not a weapon to kill, <br>But an instrument to feel.<br>And I was teased by everybody as Dumb Bill.<br>But not a boy of murderous skill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Saptarshi+Banerjee">Saptarshi Banerjee</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=543063" data-title="A Musical Identity Crisis de Saptarshi Banerjee" data-description="It was a fine guitar.
My dearest possession.
The tool to escape my life, 
The life without any prominence or distinction; 
The life, a mere proof of an existing biological function.
 
The only sense was from the music I understood.
The sounds crea..."></div>
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