Painted the same shade of blue as grandpapa’s eyes.
Painted by ma by the fireside
All the while she sat and smiled, and the spot of blue grew.

Paint dipped cloth in hand,
my sister did the flowers,
As our caravan rattled and clanked, and I felt like my bones would break.
Paint dipped cloth in hand, Alette smiled and did the flowers.

Edelweiss from the alps where I was born
Carnations from Romania, the place gypsies once called home.

the paint smelled so strong I could almost taste it
Bitter medicine that does more harm than good
In fathers hands It rested,
Getting picked plucked and scratched
Getting tightened, pulled, tortured.
Until finally it was ready
My violin was ready

By the light of the fire I played
Bow clutched in my hand, bow cutting my hand
It went
Soaring, leaping, flying
It went
Soaring, leaping flying
Across my own little piece of sky it went

Bow cutting and screeches emerging
I was held captive by the sound
Held captive by the shrieking, there one moment gone the next
Racing after the embers of a dying fire
Racing to a place it could be safe

Slowly the screams died, slowly the music came to take shape.
A small song in Germany,
From place to place we went
Slowly but surely my music began to take shape
A song or two in Russia
From country to country we traveled
An audience in France
The Caravan getting lost along the way
My music getting lost along the way
My family getting lost along the way
My freedom getting lost along the way

This is An ode to my violin
A violin whose blue has faded, along with my sky
With rivers of brown showing through
An ode to a violin whose flowers died with My family.
A violin whose music died with the gypsies