And he plays . . . a piercing torrent
He pours out in the tones keen darts
Every tone a spark of fire
Every spark burns in the heart.
And it sounds as wild complainings
Crackles like a flame of blue.
You’d expect that any moment
His taut string must break in two.
And it moans like winds o'er hillsides
Followed by a storm in Spring
From the depth it clambers upwards
As he plucks the second string.
Wildly and in streams unbounded
Now it plays and rings full speed
Thus with winds across the prairies
Rides a brave’s unfettered steed.
And now softly, as if bated,
Like a snake betwixt the grass
Prolonged baying as if wolves had
Gathered for a deadly clash.
List . . . A knife is being sharpened
And another plaintive sound
Strangely humming, flock of buzzards
Flying low above the ground.
Do you hear their wings aflapping,
Fighting for the lifeless form?
Suddenly as if touched by magic
Something cuts the hellish storm.
And the third string sounds and echoes
Tenderly like bells above,
Passing as a flash of lightning
Gleaming from an eye of love.
Like a nightingale lamenting,
Burning like a cup of wine,
Like a gypsy fallen wildly
In his loved one’s mad entwine.
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