He sang to himself.
In front of 10,000 people, he sang to himself.

Stage lights reddish-orange. Words muffled by his beard.
My friend said, he is shy and doesn’t like to see the audience.

The sitar-like dobro alternately squeaked and bellowed
hallowed violin music.
Drums backed up his rhythm guitar strumming,
the guitar sitting high on his button-down shirt,
like a mantle on a statue of a musician

who might have been in performance for an audience.
But he was not. The audience is irrelevant.
A performer without performing, he speaks a Mantra.
He says, Gone Away. From Me.

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