The Violinist Poem by Shirani Rajapakse

Lifting, moving,
bowing. Blue stripes
on loose white cover
skin and bone too
young to look like
that. Old and gnarled
like the trees in
the garden somewhere
nice. She steadies
her arm and lifts
again. The star
gleams on
translucent skin.
dark
black with
numbers to
count. Her days are
numbered. One.
Two. Three.
She knows.
The music rises
from her bow. She
plays. They play
with her. Another
performance.
Another day to live.
Cold, shivers, yet the
bow moves up then
down as the music
moves the
audience to tears.
Medals gleaming,
hearts bleeding, yet
she lives another
day. While all around
fall to his
sway.