The Violinist

The bow danced gracefully over the fiddle

Now thoughtful,  now cheerful.

The voice… it sang, it wept, it called;

At my heart-strings it pulled.

That blithe youth, whose hand guided the bow,

Was he the Master of the music he made?

His eyes smiled, tears sparkled on the lashes,

His violin sang, and something quivered in my soul.

Slender he sat, with feline grace,

With lips in a playful curve, hugging his fiddle like a lover.

Was he whispering his love in her ear?

Was it her singing back to him which I heard?

At that moment my musings stopped, when,

That music ethereal permeated mortal senses;

Mine, and his; and hers; and theirs all; It erased personal boundaries.

And grasped all spirits in a single hold.

There stood all souls merged together, if for a moment.

For a moment.

Then, they fell back to earth, 

with a sigh of yearning in each body.