Softly how she cries alone

moaning in her hollow tone

weeping on her silky strings

beckoning what morning brings.

 

Moaning in her hollow tone

curled in her sheets, all alone.

Beckoning what morning brings

no longer hearing the violin sing.

 

Curled in her sheets all alone

cold and shaking through her bones.

No longer hearing the violin sing

the rosin box, she flings.

 

Cold and shaking through her bones

her brain, as silent as a stone.

The rosin box, she flings

breaking two of the violin’s strings.

 

Her brain as silent as a stone

moaning in her hollow tone

broken are two of it’s strings

beckoning what morning brings.