Goddess of the Strings
It is I, not you, who make the strings
of your instrument sound.
You think it is your arm?
Think again, my dear.
When you were a babe I held you
You were falling. I caught you.
I made your arm move gracefully
And made you play beautifully.
You were dropping it but
I held your hand while you gripped it
Your eyes were closed and afraid
I stood you up and whispered to peek.
And now you have forgotten me
Hate me even but I haven’t cursed you.
It is still by my prayers
That your strings are not cut.