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 © Mateus Corvinus | Year Posted 2019
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