(To my Dad, the Violinist)
He’s standing on the stages,
His forehead frowned
And look directed nowhere
Or inwards – in his soul’s depths.
His foot is beating rhythms,
His fingers fly as butterflies,
His hair stands electrified
And chest can hardly keep his cries
The Master of the Strings –
His bowl conducting
The souls of the spectators.
He doesn’t play just violin, but souls and hearts.
And tears are streaming from the eyes,
The breaths are taken all away,
And hands are clasped into the fists
Out of tension – he is the Master of the Strings.
The Master Of the Strings
© Copyright: Лика Гай, 2012
Свидетельство о публикации №212122801824
Свидетельство о публикации №212122801824
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