Blue Violin, by Marc Chagall
Strange violin, are you following me?
In how many far-off cities
has your lonely night spoken to mine?
Are hundreds playing you, or only one?
Are there, in all the great cities,
those who, without you,
would be lost in the rivers?
And why am I ever the one to hear you?
Why am I always the neighbor
to those troubled ones who force you to sing?
And to say life is harder
than the hardest of things?
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