Cello

Swaying in satin sound, the bow made love to the needy strings. Yet the player wasn’t there, only a creamy melody, soothing, yearning, teasing bitter minds, crying for all the broken hearts. I sensed a persevering loneliness; a million ephemeral stories, and a writhing passion cutting deep, wounding macho flesh, honed impassibly on to a thousand mesmerizing tones.

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About Mauro Metallo

A Writer and Photographer equally at home in Italy and in Canada.

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