The Violinist

The passion that
the plucked notes evoke
in me burns
as if he himself is the devil.
He pours forth his soul
with immaculate tempo
intertwining every ounce of his life
into the musical entity.
The violin sings,
feeding off the flames of his fire,
leaving him empty when alone.
Its voice sends shivers uncontrolled down the listeners’ skin.
How I would give anything to be one with the melody as he
and be able to place, 
into simple notes,
the emotions that have overcome me.
How his music recalls its long life
with the determination that drips
from his fingers, his forehead.
And how the sounds of its tale
enters into your empty body
filling each crevice with the intense feelings…
the violin using man
to bring mournful tears
or to create a savage, angered dance.
And the curse,
he is to love only
his instrument,
for what else could create such beauty.