He was a stranger walking the wet streets of London.
She was an artist speaking her soul through a song.
The fiddle, her weapon of choice to let her heart sing beautiful melodies.
Melodies which could make any man's heart fall for her charm.

She had the beauty of a million heavenly angels.
He had no eyes for another woman but her.
He danced, and he let himself go possessed by the rythm.
She played for the world, but she meant it for him.

Days passed by, and they both met each other,
day after day, song after song.
Her heart spoke through her fiddle. His heart spoke through his poetry.
Their hearts composed beautiful music as one.

She stood on her stage, ready to fiddle,
but something was different. He never showed up.
Her fiddle still spoke, but its voice wasn't the same.
His poetry's tone was now a saddened, old voice.