The Old Man and The Guitar

I hear the lament of the guitar,
Its delicate cries of broken melodies.
Like crystal shards the strings vibrate; at once hard and fragile,
Mastered but never tamed by hardened hands.
Alone the guitar sings its elegy, 
Its voice burdened by the old guitarist.
Yet still he plays with skill,
Releasing such beauty as sadness often carries.
I hear his aches; his hidden pain among the notes.
But still the guitar cries, and the old guitarist plays. . .