The Violin

The violin rests safely in its case of fine leather.  It has many reasons to feel smug: its strings are of silvery steel; they can sing and dance at concert time, as its rigid bow of oak slides by on supple horsehairs.  This violin is very old, one of the first of his kind.  The f-holes at either side of the beautifully manufactured bridge allow him to sing like a bird in the early morning on the first day of spring as it flies over grassy green fields.

                       The songs he can sing, however, are beyond compare. When the man first picks him up, he is very beautiful. But when the musician starts to play him, the audience is stunned.  The bow glides gracefully over the glossy strings, and the resonant box releases the music.  Music fills the air like a summer’s day, as the other instruments join in, but the violin can be heard well above them all.

                       The audience, however, says nothing of the violin, while heartily praising the violinist, who did nothing but let his fingers dance on the strings and swing his right arm upon a perpendicular axis to that of the strings.  However, he never complains, he still sings, as beautifully as ever, but he now feels worthless pointless, as if all his efforts were completely futile. His heart becomes cold as his soul withers away.