The Dusty Violin
A dusty violin lies in the corner of the room
Covered in dust as if in a tomb
Broken strings tell their story
Of nights of opera and its glory
Crowds filled with wild emotions
Clapping hands with excited commotions
Years have worn the polished grain
And damped air has twisted the frame
But with love, it will play it again
With strings that hold true.
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Author:
Ronald Bennett (
Offline) - Published: June 23rd, 2026 13:41
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 24
- Users favorite of this poem: Carlos Alberto BUSTILLOS
Offline)
Comments2
A most beautiful image and a great metaphor of someone long neglected and abused that once was great and may be great again. My first instrument was a violin that I played for seven years but never really mastered. A lovely write
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