Sell me a violin, mister, of old mysterious wood.
Sell me a fiddle that has kissed dark nights on the forehead where men kiss sisters they love.
Sell me dried wood that has ached with passion clutching the knees and arms of a storm.
Sell me horsehair and rosin that has sucked at the breasts of the morning sun for milk.
Sell me something crushed in the heart's blood of pain readier than ever for one more song.
Sell me a fiddle that has kissed dark nights on the forehead where men kiss sisters they love.
Sell me dried wood that has ached with passion clutching the knees and arms of a storm.
Sell me horsehair and rosin that has sucked at the breasts of the morning sun for milk.
Sell me something crushed in the heart's blood of pain readier than ever for one more song.
2 comments:
"Sell me horsehair and rosin that has sucked at the breasts of the morning sun for milk."
-that was superb!
Pain goes into the making of poetry, I agree.
Loved reading this and would like to read more.
Dear vijayakumar This is not mine and it is from an annonumoys traveller and i just could not avoid posting it
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