The father looked up at his son,
by eluin estel
Gazing straight into his eyes,
'To deserve this, what have I done? '
He thought as he nodded twice.
'I do have one condition, though,
If I am to listen to your song,
This term you must swear to follow
Or I won't listen for long.'
'Name the term”, the son did say,
Wondering what it would be,
Perhaps, 'Don't disturb me another day'?
No, that was too far fetched to be.
'Sing along with your violin, my boy,
I feel that instrument's your best,
In your hands that thing is just a toy
Under your chin, please let it rest.'
The singer brought his violin out
And sang his very best,
After all, his father, without a doubt,
Did deserve the crest.
The song slowly came to a close,
And as he put his violin down,
From his seat, the father arose,
And approached him with a frown.
Upon the singer's face he found
Some hair out of place,
Gently, without making a sound,
He pushed it back with grace.
It was just a mere excuse
For the father to stroke his hair,
Something that was out of use
Yet familiarised right there.
'I must apologise, ' the father said,
'For being so stony faced and bare,
That you thought I didn't bother-
In truth, my son, I care.'
'You asked me to listen to your song-
Many times have I already done it.
I appreciated you; I know I was wrong
In not letting you see it.'
'I love your voice, my son, ' said he,
'I love you better still,
If I seemed cold hearted, forgive me,
I know I must change, I will.'