The Violinist

‘Twas a night as such I'd never known,
The sort of night where demons alone
Doth the dark streets prowl in search
And even angels from their presence lurch,
As fell deeds they perform under open sky
And in their watchful wait to lie
For hapless souls to come their way
And to Hell drag them all away.

It was on such a fearful night as this
That I first felt eternities kiss
As so nearly she did come to me
That I swear almost did I see
That one who one day comes for every soul
To escort at last down to Sheol.
My death I knoweth truly now
That hardly I did beat some how.

But tarried I have already too long
For on this page a tale does belong
And I pray that you may find within
A reason to begin again.
You know not now by what I mean
But by the end, you will have seen.
But time grows short so I now begineth
My solemn tale, of the violinist.

The night on which begins my tale
Was such as might cause gods to pale
For evil crept not hidden that night
But as open as men do in light.
For some reason that I knoweth not
Hell had loosed her horrid lot
Upon the earth that frightful day
And made itself a place to stay.

Indoors all sane did find their rest
Not but the witches and mad would test
The forces at work in the leering dark
Their warning did the simplest hark.
And so it was that on that night
I was reading in the pleasant light
Of a corner tavern, safe indoors
And far away from Hell's dark shores.

I thought to myself, "A place so fine
With pleasant folk and cultured wine
Could ne'er be paid a fearsome call
But it was in this safety that I saw
The darkest demon at work that night
And the brightest angel to ever shed light
But again I go too far ahead
And so of the tavern I'll tell you instead.

It was a pleasant place where I oft had gone
For softer company and lively song
Where the drink would flow with no end
And the place was closed to the howling wind.
That night was not so different there
But for another thing in the familiar air.
For on that night there could be heard within
The soft, sweet sounds of a violin.

She sang her song long and soft
And to the heavens did it rise aloft
To tickle the ears of angels on high
And cause them down to earth to fly.
A sound that seemed to split the dark
Like the joyful singing of the lark.
For not oft did such an artist come
And play for such a common sum.

The player himself was soft to the look
A scholar adept but for the book
Spectacles hiding dancing eyes
That seemed at the same both bright and wise
And before the tavern his song he played
As such a talent he did display
As never we had seen before.
He was as the greatest and even more.

We cheered and clapped at his every song
Never thinking there could be something wrong
With this fellow we deemed to be so fine
Whose face in such joy did shine
As played he did his violin
Until of course, the stranger came in.

None of us knew the drunken fool
Who pulled himself up to a stool,
Nor the lovely lady who at his side
Calmly did his wiles abide.
Raucously he ordered drink.
Away from him the rest did shrink
As suddenly the violinist did he see
And called "won't you play a tune for me?"

He laughed at first and then did cease
As the player stopped, and all was peace.
The silent violinist stood,
And looked up the man as a fighter would.
Calm, dispassionate he gazed on he
Who looked back eyes wavering drunkenly.
And then he took his instrument in a gentle way
And smiled slightly, "for the lady, I will play."

And then entreated I was to such a song
As I do not think could be said in wrong
To state that in heaven had not been heard.
And none in the place could say a word.
Across the strings he drew his bow
And the music cleanly forth did flow.
And he did not cease, but played he on
A song that could have waked the dawn.

And the ladies face, if seen it you could
Showed such a delight as never you would
Hope again to see in all the earth
Not for first love or child's birth.
For the beauty of his soft, rich song
Seemed in some way to her belong.
For ‘twas from the kindness in her gentle face
That the song seemed to come that now filled that place.

None wished the song to quickly end
And prayed I did that God might lend
More time to this night divine
For him to play his song so fine,
And as the final notes of the song did die
The violinist gave a smile wry.
He looked on the lady with a face so clear
And gently he said, "Thank you my dear."

She smiled in return, a soft mild stare
Until suddenly was broken the magic of the air.
"Play me now a song!" the boisterous voice cried out
And we all turned in disgust at the drunkards shout.
The violinist cast down his eyes as if from some horrid task
And said simply to the man, "You know not for what you ask."
The fellow raised in fury, a voice seeming nearly mad
"Play me now my song, or I can make you wish you had!"

The violinist turned and gave him no regard
And we marveled at his strength at keeping up his guard.
As he turned he spied another and he said "I tell you true"
Laughingly he said, "This song was writ for you!"
The fellow in his seat smiled up from a drink
"A song written for me? I hardly dare to think."
The room burst into laughter at the gentlemanly quip
And the drunkard at the bar, we nearly did forget.

"Then imagine it you shan't, I'll play it now for you!"
And the player did begin again as such I never knew.
What the last song was in beauty, this one was in mirth
As joyful as the dancing flames springing from the hearth.
The hall all joined in clapping, keeping with the tune
That swept about as merrily as birds in middle June.
His bow danced quick as lightning, and his eyes did just the same
As the fellow that the song was for, more jubilant became.

It seemed in fact merely to enhance what already
The patrons of the tavern could quite clearly see,
A joy that burst forth from the man, sitting as he was,
That so greatly overshadowed any other flaws.
And so the song continued, bright and joyfully
Until the very last note from the place did flee.
The fellow rose up form is seat and said, "Much thanks my boy!"
The violinist shook his head, "Thank you, it was a joy."

"Stop this foolish nonsense!" The rough voice called out again
"You play for all these others, why not for me then?"
The performer turned again, to the fellow at the bar
And gave him such a look as to a peasant from a tsar.
"I'll play you not your song, and I beg ask me no more,
For truly do I say, you know not what you ask me for."
Instead he turned again, and peered across the space,
And quickly ‘cross the room he went, as if in great chase.

He stopped before a table and raised his violin
Before an ancient patron, and so he did begin.
"An academic fellow, you seem to be to me,
And a song I have for you, as shortly you will see."
The older fellow smiled, slightly so it seemed
He was indeed a scholar, as the player rightly deemed.
We all froze in anticipation, for the first notes to begin
But never did we hear this song, for something horrid happened then.

The drunkard rose up from the bar, and over to him went
And from him his violin, harshly did he rent.
"Play for me now," he screamed aloud,
And the other patrons rose, for this could not be allowed.
Suddenly, though the violinist made for us to freeze,
"Leave him be my friends," he said with graceful ease.
"If your song you want so much, who am I but to adhere?
Sit back now and listen, for what you desire you now will hear'

Silence took the room, as the drunkard paused a spell
Then giving back the violin said, "Then all is well."
"We will see," said the player as he made to begin.
"Just remember that I warned you, when we reach the end."
We looked on inquiringly, wondering what he meant
By his words so curious and his strange assent.
None of us could have known what was to come next
A nightmare that to this day leaves me cold and vexed.

The player readied bow, and raised his violin
And into the realms of darkness did suddenly he enter in.
I cannot offer explanation, nor can I fully tell
Of the song he played that was written deep in hell.
For suddenly the players instrument did scream
And from it issued forth a hellish sort of theme.
We all cried out and covered our ears at the wailing that now filled
The tiny little tavern, so piercing and so shrill.

The bow cut cross like sword on stone, grating to the ear
And to the very soul of man pain did hotly sear.
And the violinist, all this time did stand
Calmly and dispassionate, in spite of the hellish band.
For ‘cross the walls that shadows had taken demon form
And on their nightmare strings, there they did perform.
Cellos, violas, the orchestra grew its hellish music rose
And the drunkard at the bar, in horror sat as froze.

"Why?" he managed out, above the raucous din,
Of the cacophonous symphony, that was performed for him.
The violinist shook his head, playing all the same
"You asked me to perform your song, written for you fame"."
The fellow looked up in horror at him, the violinist as he played,
And a wild look came to his eyes, as he slowly said.
"This song, truly, it can't be mine; in it there's no mirth!"
"It's been written every day for you since the moment of your birth."

At this the fellow screamed, "Yes, yes, now I see."
"A demon sent from Hell truly must you be!"
The player shook his head, and as the song reached its shrillest
The specter quietly said "I am the violinist.
Since the day you were conceived, I've been there by your side
I've seen every time you've cursed, destroyed and lied."
And everything you've done, all your evil and your wrong
It was tasked to me to compose it into song."

"But what of them?" The fellow cried, "Their songs were not as this!"
And the violinist scowled and said to him with a hiss,
"Their lives were lived in beauty and joy and so was writ
A song displaying such and your nightmare tune won't quit!
Every day I hoped you'd change, that I could write a different song
But you chose instead to rent and rape, and so I had to go along.
Every day it tortured me to play this song, dark and not in cheer
And finally you'll know my pain, listen close and hear!"

The song rose to fever pitch, and all of us did fear
That such a hellish symphony might rent the mortal ear.
Fire filled the player's eyes, and horror in his guest
And finally from the drunkard, his sanity did he rest.
The fellow screamed in agony, and fell down to the floor
And writhed there in his agony until he moved no more.
We looked down in horror, at his cursed head
And quickly did we understand, the man was truly dead.

I looked up to see the player, and gasped when I saw where
The violinist had stood playing, there was nobody there.
Not was left but a soulless corpse that lay silent at our feet
As all our hearts sought simply to, reclaim their given beat.
Ne'er again did I see that one, who played for us that night
Nor do I imagine that I'll ever wish to see again that sight.
For no nightmare have I ever had that could match this one in terror
And never again do I think I will, unless I be in error.

But all my life I've remembered those words that he saw fit,
To speak on that horrid night, "it was your own song that you writ."
I knoweth not whether I'll see him again, now or in eternity
But I know that he's there watching, and writing a song for me.
The content of that song? I dare not to think.
For it may be that it hold nightmares, from which the bravest shrink.
I don't know, but I try live in such a way as to
A melody like that drunken fools to somehow elude.


For each of us a song is writ that we create with our lives
And only on the day we die will we truly realize,
That which we did unseen on earth, before us will be laid
And how it was we lived our lives in our own songs will be played
I thank God for the Violinist, for he showed me in a way
That both beauty and darkness will someday be repaid.
So when your path crosses his, as it will someday
What will you have to show? What song, will you have made for him to play?