A faithful violin was left after a genius.
With it he created the pieces of great music.
His heart knew no uncertainties, worries,
He played to bring into people's lives beauty.
He hugged her and loved her better than death.
Who praised, who suffered, everyone knew his genius.
But the life's thunder will end, the lightnings will die,
And the people will leave, forget 'bout his life,
But the voiceless violin set on his grave
Will not play anymore, will not give grief its pay.
Forever through rain, through sun, and thought storms,
She will give her soul to her master alone.

This is my own poem translated by me. Therefore, it doesn't have particularly smart rhymes. It's actually much better in the Russian version.