My Violin
My frames of wood
I’m scroll and strings
I often sing of many things,
When bow is bent
and then applied
we sing and dance
of heaven’s song
But when the shine
has left my frame
I look quite sad
till gentle hand
wipe way my tears
Now I am proud
to feel my gloss
and smell the sap
from the concert dance
the Sunday last.
by Sierra Saxe
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