Tamara Stamenkovic
Poetry,  Written literature | Author's writings

The violin

This time I managed
to read her thoughts,
with slight finger movements
I held her in my hands.
Play upon me…
until your fingers bleed
I know her very well,
I know her weak points;
there are four,
pure Quinta.

I’m her luthier,
I know her best.
I grabbed her by the neck,
I met her with my left hand
with its touch and fingers;
her neck tensed,
and the body gradually moved.

We were moving in the same rhythm,
the right hand is determined
for the quality of her tone.
I have my ways of challenging it;
martel, detach, legato, spiccato…
I was tuning her,
with increasing hand movements.
I showed her my experience,
she knew she could trust me.
And she was.

She believed me
until my cheekbones cracked
and my hands were sweating,
she produced tones
that will stay in my eardrums.
Sounds that I will continually play;
over and over again,
as I think of her.

She showed me all the possibilities
of one instrument;
I showed her all the possibilities
of one violin master.
My fingers experienced the climax,
drop by drop;
the blood was leaving its marks.

In the end, she just whispered to me:
You play me the best…

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