//------------------------------//
// The festival 
// Story: Oh, My Dear Octavia 
// by Toe-walker 
//------------------------------//

Autumn Day, come along,
Drew an imposing throng,
Big as they come.
Left and right stands the mass,
Centred, the upper class.
Words make a hum.

Early acts entertained
Fairly. The crowd remained
Hungry for more.
Now, at long last, your turn
Comes, and their gazes burn
Down to your core.

Taking a seat, you bring,
Timidly, bow to string,
Then you begin.
Try to be unaware
That a collective stare
Claws at your skin.

Quickly, your piece grows loud
And you forget the crowd,
Stern as a drill.
You are too focussed now
Even to notice how
Practice meets thrill.

Something unique holds sway
Which, with each note you play,
Goes and arrives.
There, in its midst, stand you,
Blissfully living through
Dozens of lives.

Clear, your full essence rings
With, for all other things,
Nary a care.
Into one demiurge
Nature and labour merge
Flesh, wood and air.

Forth bursts a final bout.
Softly, it peters out.
Silence ensues.
Stiffly, you look around.
Did you, on whims unsound,
Gamble and lose?

Then all those viewers who
Looked to be prying you,
Searching for flaws,
Probing and sundering,
Burst into thundering
Clouds of applause.