Tremolo

The mark of a triumphal concert printed On a glossy long-playing record sleeve. The concertmaster's smiling face hinted The acclaim she was entitled to receive. She liked her drawing with her lock of hair Falling on the strings of her violin Like the violinist of the disk where She held her instrument under her chin. As always, her last stroke of a pen fell With the last crackling of the old vinyl. One day, she would be applauded as well Louder than the winners of a final. Her hope endured until the dazzling daydreams Shattered into pallid scars of moonbeams.