A violinist plays, the violin weeps, But this is not the grief it seems. For every cry and every moan A greater meaning makes its own. The bow, a sword above the strings, A tender agony it brings. But in this torment, faint and deep, The sounds of fire wake from sleep. So let it scream, so let it fray, It means it’s burning, it’s alive today. And so the soul ignites with passion, When played upon by its Creator’s fashion. How sweet the bliss, the sacred art, Of merging with the one who gave the start. It trembles, held in his embrace, Torn between time and empty space, It barely draws a single breath, But this is life, defying death. Oh, now you see the world that lies, When the violinist plays, and the violin cries…
