LAST CYCLE © 2008

Violin, in your strings, the veins resound,

Each note a cry, each sound, epic bound.

The blood in tears, a deep throbbing,

Pulsing the symphony that spans the globe.

Perhaps in a song the true story is born,

In every chord, the whole soul is worn.

Full of emotion, rises the hymn of glory,

Written in strings, echoing memory’s story.

Violin, to your sound, the tears dance in the air,

Spinning swiftly, never ceasing, never spare.

And in the end, the goal belongs to those who see,

That in the uncertain, discoveries always flee.

But it is they, the bold, who make of the sound,

The secret trail where the gift is found.

And the violin, faithful, holds the song,

Of those who, in the uncertain, found their reason all along.

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