Whisper soft at the end of the day,
her heart remembers the vibrato
of the bow across her violin strings.
Calling her name, carrying her soul,
note after note ascending
her sadness overwhelming her.
As the violin sings, as it gently plays,
her eyes look to the golden sunset
her balcony a lonely place of retreat.
Does he hear the beating of her heart?
Does he know how her heart weeps
as she lifts the violin to her chin?
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WEEPING OF THE STRINGS
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