Once there lived a violinist bound by need,
Chasing perfection, driven by greed.
From morning till night, he played alone,
Seeking greatness carved in stone.

One day, a rumor reached his ear—
A Frenchman had come, brilliant and near.
Curiosity burned, though he knew fear,
What if this stranger’s skill was clear?

At the theater, he watched from the side,
As music pierced his heart and pride.
The Frenchman’s notes, haunting and raw,
Exposed a flaw he hadn’t known he saw.

Home he staggered, in fury and shame,
Took up his violin, played the same.
But for hours, he fell apart,
Each note a tear in his breaking heart.

At dawn, they found him, silent and cold,
With his violin, empty and old.
A life spent chasing a light too bright,
Lost to pride, vanished in night.

Perhaps it was
a day in October,

or summer,
or spring—

it could have been
a Tuesday,

or the rains
in July.

How could I
have known?

I’ve rarely been
that blessed.

Perhaps it was
her eyes,

the song
of her laughter,

those many nights
of longing,

or the distance
that has come of
age.

But one day,
I fell in love.

She had galaxies
In her eyes
And her tears
Were falling stars.