Violin plays to passing ears,
Not one stops to meet what it hears,
The melody floats through waterfall skies,
Drops bombard the pavement in,
Front and round musician’s eyes.
But no joy is lost from fiddler’s song,
The notes sing gracefully and long,
They weave through streets and market stalls,
Searching for an ear that knows,
That they are Worthy of great kingly halls.
Drops crash thicker, faster, wetter,
Fiddler plays both harder, better,
No flooding rain or human disinterest,
Will cause hardy violin or graceful notes,
Or great fiddler to rest.
