Maestro, Virtuoso, Aficionado

Maestro
play on

In the hands of a virtuoso even a decayed instrument, ignored for years, attic-bound,
can make a music strong enough to bend walls.

Maestro
my maestro
play on 

I don’t claim the title for myself but my age being its own reward and punishment at once,
I live toward the words maestro and virtuoso as if they were mine to use.

Virtuoso
I am aficionado
Maestro
I am waiting 

What do I call myself now when, with my instrument all but played out,
I cannot help but seek a clarity in the use of a single string?

Ossessionato
I am obsessed with the hunt
Maestro
I am forsaken

I’ve been told that nothing made on the single string is performable,
but here I find myself facing an audience who expects performance.

Maestro
I am the impression of you only
Aficionado
Ossessionato

In command of the single note
and — of course, now I see!  In command of the silence around it.  

Maestro
I am aficionado
I cannot stop this
Am no virtuoso

Can one perform silence?  On stage, now, I do nothing.
The audience expects something.  But what could replace this?