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Crafted by a grandmaster, 
hidden in a velvet-
lined case, 
with Aoide’s 
voice, and 
Aphrodite’s shape.

The varnish is scratched 
and the dark timber chipped.
A bridge no longer a bridge, 
but a prisoner.
The bow makes the strings 
sing, and calloused hands make

the music dance.
And the crowd is on 
the edge of their chairs,
until the very last