Everyday, Amorsolo made his way through the forest outside town until he reached the river, on where the Sun often admired her reflection.

When late afternoon came, as the Sun prepared to sleep, Amorsolo brought out his violin and played the notes as if he were playing his very own heartstrings.  Often, because of his passionate playing, a bowstring curled up apologetically.  Without hesitation, he pulled out several strands from his long hair and stretched them across his bow.  Then he resumed playing, coaxing out the lilting notes.

Amorsolo did this everyday—plucking and playing his own hair as if the Sun could see how much he loved her through this sacrifice.  But in truth, no one witnessed it. < previous | next >