The Black Violin

Halls of echoing agony,
And walls that have worn away with time...

A man who played the violin,
Played only on his saddest days.

His music may have caused others to grow weary with chagrin,
But this man played in solitude.

And through his lonely screeches of sorrow,
He gave pardon to the life that had forsaken him.

From deep in the eye of a storm,
This man played his penultimate score,

And the final symphony he would play,
Would be his last breath...

The house still stands, as it always had.
But a new coat of eeriness has been painted over its allure.

For always upon the fall of night could be heard,
The melancholy aria of the black violin...