She softly picked up the small wooden instrument,
Delicately placing in the knap of her neck.
The bow swiftly weeps the strings,
And a symphony begins.
The notes not coming from a score,
But yet from within her soul.
A carnival of notes, and pitches, and beats,
Fills the air and brings a crowd to its feet.
But then the beat slows, saddens, and sorrows,
Mocking the happy carnival tune from before.
Gradually the notes become longer and quieter,
Until the delicate thread of music gives way.
The girl quietly puts down her small wooden instrument,
And walks away.
A smile on her face mocking her tears.