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Jan Kubelik

suprusr 0

Your bow swept over a string, and a long low note
     quivered to the air.
(A mother of Bohemia sobs over a new child perfect
     learning to suck milk.)

Your bow ran fast over all the high strings fluttering
     and wild.
(All the girls in Bohemia are laughing on a Sunday afternoon
     in the hills with their lovers.)