No one can match this refined tone,
this resplendent resonance that rolls
into the hall. The sonorous sound
slaps the tiled floor and escalates
up the copious curtains. It pours from
my heart, my fingers, the strings. I am the
overlord of the stage, the room, and the hall.
I could beat down this frail, wooden hourglass; it
could be crushed into pulp by my hand...
the audience as well. Those well-dressed dogs
in their seats watch me, tongues and tails wagging
by my every move. No one understands what happens
when I press the turgid bow onto the taught
strings, except for me, that is. I am
the only one who knows what occurs
when the flesh of my fingers pluck and push
the instrument. A shaped piece of kindling cannot
draw tears from the strong and bring joy to the hopeless.
A blank piece of firewood cannot make this sound.
Not anything or anyone can, except for me, that is.