A cello held between the Master's thighs
Silently waiting for His touch
Tuned to perfection by His ear and hand
To release the song long hidden
Within its body and taut strings.
It waits.
His skillful fingers tighten on its fragile neck
A string vibrates with the touch of His bow
As it coaxes it to yield its treasure
Wound within the strand of steel
That's drawn tight enough to snap.
It yields.
A wooden body warmed against His flesh
Begins to vibrate at a measured pitch
From steel and wood there comes a sound
So delicate and sweet it floats on air
And settles softly at His feet.
It trembles.
With passion, skill and strength
His body wraps His willing instrument
And a metamorphosis takes place
Instrument and Master blend
To become one living thing with one desire.
It gives.
The Master draws each note, each tone
From Himself then pours them out
In sweat and passion as they echo
Through the cello's trembling form
And find release in music yet unheard.
It sings.
No metronome could keep the beat
Of ancient rhythms as they course
Through steel and flesh and bow
And dance their magic flames across
The Master's brow and instrument.
It lives.
And as His final score concludes
Master and instrument are spent
Both silently listen to the sound
Of beauty twisted from their souls
And loosed from bonds, forever free.
It flies.