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The Fiddler

She was raised on the shorelines of Lake Wawasee her mother a full-blooded Miami and her father now buried on Syracuse Hill said she will have his eyes. She’ll always remember the day that he died with fading breath he called her to his side and he played her a song, he knew was the one, that she loved as a child… that she loved as a child. And, oh, when that fiddle would call for its bow his hands would begin soft and slow and the strings they would sing through the night. They would sing through the night. * The tears and the years made her spirit free the summer before she turned seventeen she went out on her own and her mother can still see the will in her eyes. She played in the taverns and out on the streets she played for the strangers that she would meet like that maple and spruce, and hickory bow, was a part of her soul… was the heart of her soul. And, oh, when that fiddle would call for its bow her hands would begin soft and slow and the strings they would sing through the night. They would sing through the night. * She traveled the world over land and high seas the audiences cheered and rose to their feet when the legend lived on and she played the song that she loved as a child… that she loved as a child. And, oh, when that fiddle would call for its bow their hands would begin soft and slow and the strings they would sing through the night. They would sing through the night.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019




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