Where the muses, the quiet light flows.
Where the violin gives echoes.
Where is the cradle, the art of life.
Where the world of art, music camp.
And cries violin, pain nervous.
The violinist is tired, they call for an encore.
And maybe someone understood the violin.
What the Fiddler wanted to say.
Tears unwittingly, go themselves.
The pain of the soul, what not to say.
The bow brings out the pain of the wound.
The wax melts, the candle goes out.