The Mandolin Player

Five finger dancers jête fret to fret.
They spring and leap with incandescent glee
unknown to the master who bids them.
Glazed black marbles sparkle dull
not a glance for the limber muses
Each string rings bringing another unwilling second.

If only he knew the joy such seconds bring
a light would spring forth as his fingers did in that glassy blackness.

Perhaps the water stills in awareness 
We are fools to the marionette song.
Like those dancers frequenting frets
We are played by him in a complacent jaunt.