The Violinist

Published August 19, 2014 by rlmcdermott

you pick me up
and put me down
and strike a bow
across my strings–
there is no sound

there is no sound
where sound should
be–the music’s fled

the air outside
has grown too
hot the bombs
have left too
many dead–

black notes across
a littered street
what cannot sing
will never weepThe Violinist

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