The small boy took a deep breath,
and began to play.
He drew the bow across the strings slowly at first,
Drawing the sound out from within the metal coils,
Notes so high they nearly hurt.
The melody was mournful, and yet not,
Like snow falling in the winter,
Soft and cold.
Harsh and graceful.
They felt the music,
Not just inside their ears,
But inside their eyes, their bones;
Were reminded of memories long past
Or thrown into a scene of dizzying wonder.
With his tiny, nimble fingers,
Their heartstrings were plucked at,
Forcing them to feel,
He pulled the emotion from them,
Spinning it into a whirlpool of colors, thoughts and dreams.
It hurt a little bit,
But great music is supposed to--
It's designed to scrape you raw,
To expose all you are,
And then stitch you up,
Leaving you the better for it.
The boy held the final note out,
Both beautiful and terrible,
And then put down his violin, bowed, and left the small stage.