This violin is my pen, I am the player.
I use this tune to ink teary words.
I peel my haunted soul – each layer–
As I make my song on these chords.
See not my tears as salt waters–
They are are but rivers of seasoned grief.
They flow for me, for sons and daughters:
Silent but pregnant with unbirthed grief.
I have seen thirst standing in the river;
Hungry I’ve been, standing in the barn.
Where some have smiled, there I quiver;
Orphan I am, I look for my father’s arm.
I slow no tune to make you somnolent-
But my voice shall tear down walls.
I am knight. I string my lance, my instrument:
Listen, a troubled soul, helpless, calls.
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.