She plays her violin -
Yet her heart will never heal.
Nothing moved the mountain.
Not a trick, not a skill.
She's drunk with her bitter tears.
She is a prisoner to a million fears.
Life is lossing its beautiful colours.
She's walking down the exit door.
Death stole all he ever loved
He mops their graves with his teardrops.
There is no home to return to
No one to look up to.
He shattered the grandpiano
And the smilling pictures on the wall.
Life is lossing its beautiful colours.
He is standing at the exit door.
She's leaving where music left her more broken.
From a distance she can hear the song of songs.
In the midst of the silent graves
A voice is calling the helpless.
Blinded by her tears
With her hand she touched the feet of the Father.
Suddenly life is beginning at the exit door.
They found the arms of the potter -
Of broken hearts.
As the woods mimed gently
In the morning breeze like a ballet dancer.
The mother lilly
Beheld that holy thing
Begotten of her
Like the blessed Madonna the little child in the manger.
There, her seed lay asleep
To care for anything in the world.
She knew not how to teach
Life to what seemed dead
But love taught her fingers how
Like Mozart to a novice the secret keys of the grandpiano.
And there she stood
Before any smelt the coming of rain singing the virtues
Love inspired to teach the seed. Her seed!
She poured wisdom into song
And into a seed ignorant of life.
Her season had come to sleep
And all the garden of the valley had mourned.
The marching Turks passed by to war
trampling the glorious swansong on her lips.
The sole of the general
Dug her blessed seed to the ground
And the rain came.
The rain came to raise the one, destined for the general's quiet grave.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.