A Requiem for Bartok

Viola Concerto
which he never finished
poor and broke in New York
as so many were and still are
he died

there was no dirge
no elegy
no requiem
for a true artist
has no true friend

they called him a genius
a great artist
they even finished writing
his last testament
his Viola Concerto

but nobody knew him
he was alone
in his Hungarian solitude

nobody sang
a dirge
an elegy
not even a requiem
for him

one early spring night
in a Colorado town
far away from New York
I saw a woman on the stage
in the shadow of his light
let her viola sing
what cannot be sung
alone in the midst of the clamor
of symphonic chaos

people sat still
like silent tomb stones
just listened
vacant eyes

she was playing a loving requiem
for Bartok