A violinist fiddled.With strings resined for winter.Summer's light splintered.

—the longer you silence a violin, the harder it is for it to find its true voice again.

The only reason I am successful is because I have stayed true to myself.

Violinists wear the imprint on their necks with prideFor they are the players of harmony.Pilgrims, too, wear the imprint on their foreheads with prideFor they are the conductors of unity.And Lovers? Why, they are made humble by the imprint on their heartsFor they are merely the instruments of rhapsody.