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.