, Poem of the week: Prison Camp Violin, Riga by Robert Sheppard ( afer guardian)

My violin

It was a  German made violin

Which I bought on my own liking

And choice for my   passion for

Learning Violin was ingrained in my

Blood ; more and more from listening

To the sacred  instrument from expert

Players of world renown. Melody  entwined

With engross – we wonder.

Wood and  carving into shapes and

Strings,,tuning to pitches- your fingers

Play by the dictates of the bow up and down,

Jumping  into various lines .Eclectic notations

and  horse hair creating ripples and sensations

in you. How can be the voice inhuman?

when human craves for  Solace  and Divine

for his pained soul. My violin my sole  relief .