Strings missing, wood worn,
You lie on a bed of musk blue velvet,
A thin layer of dust between you and the world.
A membrane of forgotten songs.

Scratched wood and unvarnished surface,
Your quavering tone is diminished,
As the wind shakes your spindly string,
And hovers in your hollow body.

You long to be held, and played,
You want to sing with your rich, quivering voice,
And be held in a master’s loving hands,
Once again.