Violins Have Souls

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The violins scream their woe,
The echo like a cry.
It marks their tired foe,
The heartache and the lie.
A voice not described,
Like untouched snow or dust.
And then the echoes died,
In silence do we trust.
Creeps on the echo in your heart
Emotion lingers, raises,
Creeps on the sorrow like an art,
And there you find
Your praises.





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