When New York heard a violin,
A hopscotch path stomps into being.
When the strings crack in the hexagon light,
And the anthems raise up the neon ceiling.

When New York heard a violin,
A hopscotch path courses through the brick orchards.
And the hidden saints pull their scarves tighter,
In floodlight shadows by panes quartered.

When New York heard a violin,
A hopscotch path tattoos the tarmac.
And barefoot Madonnas gaze over the river,
Where meadowlands run blue and far back.

When New York heard a violin,
A hopscotch path creeps up the signs.
Where jungle gyms and oak roots hide
Nubia, Egypt and aquarium shrines.

When New York heard a violin,
A hopscotch path stomps into being.
And spirits leap the squares in silence,
Looking for souls in need of freeing.