A painting of a violin
should be a violin itself
for light to play it's gone.
Within yourself you paint a violin that's gone,
and wonder why a silent thing
awakens memories of other times
you never knew yourself.
Those times when violins were built
to meet demands for sweeter sounds
than life could offer at first sight,
hopes for the world to come.
A distant sound from within time,
imagined but to you as real
as the word you used to tell
what sounding board is for: it's soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.