This chord twanged,
as that chord is plucked.
The bow strikes again.
And again ... and again, still.
The notes, ringing high,
then abruptly, ringing low.
Fervently producing sound;
this one woman orchestra.
Strike, after strike, after strike,
...my finger tips bleed.
Sweating out my soul-
playing this sonata.
First verse, Second verse,
and now the Chorus.
Third verse, Fourth verse,
and again, the Chorus.
Fifth verse, sixth verse,
and then ... the Chorus.
Always coming back,
to the same, old Chorus.
The conclusion draws near,
always the most awaited.
How will it happen?
What will I feel?
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
This chord twanged,
as that chord is plucked.
The bow strikes again.
And again ... and again, still.
The notes, ringing high,
then abruptly, ringing low.
Fervently producing sound;
this one woman orchestra.
Strike, after strike, after strike,
...my finger tips bleed.
Sweating out my soul-
playing this sonata.
First verse, Second verse,
and now the Chorus.
Third verse, Fourth verse,
and again, the Chorus.
Fifth verse, sixth verse,
and then ... the Chorus.
Always coming back,
to the same, old Chorus.
The conclusion draws near,
always the most awaited.
How will it happen?
What will I feel?
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