LINES OF THOUGHT © 2015

The man who cries,

(To the sound of the violin).

Lets the tears caress his face,

With a grip, a clandestine despair,

Hoping they won't fall upon his chest,

Where the heart resides, heavy and distressed.

For there, in the cavern of cruel sadness,

The heart beats, but weak and in pain,

With each pulse, an echo of bitterness

Of a love or a dream gone in vain.

In the deep lake,

Where all the pain dwells,

The waters reflect the weight of the world,

And the cruelty of souls without shells.

The sound of the violin, in its melancholy,

Cries along with the man, without joy.

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