The Violin

The Violin

written by: James Walmsley

 

There is a comfort, a solace in the contours and the sound, as Beethoven and Bach fill my mind and Gluck’s Blessed Spirits dance once again.
I have travelled the world, caressed and loved the strings as the strings have loved and caressed me.
Before Kings and Emperors, Paupers and Peasants I have performed. My gift from God has pleased and sometimes saddened.
My music has been my love, my hope, my salvation, my existence, now the memory of music is all I have left.
In this place I now sit and remember; they tell me I am no longer part of the human race. I am a son of Abraham, and Isaac, of David, of Zion, a son of Israel.
As I shuffle through the pouring rain down a trodden path where millions have passed to a place that will end the suffering and the pain,
I pray to God to cherish and keep my soul. And as I lie here and take my final breath it is not of Abraham, and Isaac, not of David, not of Zion that I think, nor of my tortured soul, it is of my beautiful violin left hanging on the wall.