The Fiddler

In a little Hungarian cafe Men and women are drinking Yellow wine in tall goblets.

Through the milky haze of the smoke, The fiddler, under-sized, blond, Leans to his violin As to the breast of a woman. Red hair kindles to fire On the black of his coat-sleeve, Where his white thin hand Trembles and dives, Like a sliver of moonlight, When wind has broken the water.