• In that purple field of flowers
    nothing but grey darkness
    surrounding the dead violinist,
    still wondering
    with his magical instrument
    beside his tomb.
    Nobody remembers him,
    no one comes to see him,
    no flowers sent to him,
    he's forgotten.
    Once he became god,
    god of harmonic art.
    Once he was admired
    with his mysterious friend
    The Red Violin.
    Once they impacted Universe
    Playing dominants
    and touching sensible notes.
    But now there are nothing
    only an invisible history.
    Who will listen to them again?
    Silent shouts,
    the end
    of it’s limitless tessitura
    Minor scales
    that make demons cry,
    Furious chords
    making angels hate.
    Calm largos
    like baby sleeping.
    The violinist is still alive
    in his colorless space,
    screaming octaves
    to the nature
    fa…fa
    Si…Si
    la…la
    Can you hear him?
    Welcome to his world.