Chapter 1
In an orchestra of silence, a violin played,
Crafting a symphony for ears that had strayed.
A novel notion began to kindle, take hold,
A festive gala, like carnivals of old,
To summon those who hear in hues of grey.
The violinist knew his art, oh, he could feign,
Could mimic melodies without touching a strain.
But in this world of silence, he unfurled,
A melody like none other in the world.
To them, the violin sang of love, and marvels grand,
It crooned in tones of complexities they understand.
It wept for what will never be, a sorrow shared,
Then soothed, proclaiming life’s prospects, unimpaired.
The fiddler’s serenade came to an end, and all stood.
An ovation of this magnitude was misunderstood,
For the deaf savored his violin, as if they heard,
From his countenance, they read his every word.
