The Silent Violinist

Among the dainty dews that dropped 

Down the lane of lazy leaves

And among the bright bluebells 

Whose ever-searing silence speak, 

I thought my ears faintly felt 

The strumming of soulful tunes 

Upon the stillness of nature's sight, 

Flowing flawlessly like the freshets 

And down one's deepest dreams.

I've heard it again and yet again 

When the yews of yester years 

Bring me their bunches of bountiful berries 

And when the red roses in repose 

Wake to wander into the wistful wilds 

For whom the skylarks softly sing. 

The tunes of those that never talk; 

The tunes that tirelessly touch my heart, 

From the strings of nature's springs.

When I've never heard myself aloud, 

Humming to the tweets of the tits 

The more dire the desire becomes 

And the more I went ways for it 

The farther it flew from my flailing fate 

And cantered carelessly wavering away 

For miles and miles to be in my midst 

Like seas that stretch in search of speech 

And see it in the silence of the shores.

My last and lost longing to laud aloud 

Brims over the rims of vague white vials 

With sherries that sheerly share 

The fragrance of foregone remembrance. 

I've not known a bird who hasn't flown 

After a countless flapping of feathers 

And just the same, the sounds that soar 

From within the violin's whistle, wakes 

The songs of the speechless's soul.