Into my flute now, if I could breathe,
I would breathe slow, in gratitude,
As ageless voices echo deep,
They rebound back, in a dance of music.
Into my flute now, if I could breathe,
I would whisper a song of gratitude,
Not of love and gain, or loss and pain,
But of unbound simplicity, unexpressed.
I’d tell my instrument of a listless night,
Of long years and shadows, now gone by,
A transient discord of horror, and then again,
A bursting melody, not in vain.
I’d tell him of this special soul,
The one who creates music in expertise,
Drumming this vibrancy, unparalleled,
I’d tell him of the minstrel of a far off grove.
I’d breath to my flute, a harmony, a soul,
A voice unheard---unheard before,
And I’d like to tell him, that although,
I cannot tame the winds into a waiting fist,
I can call the music my own!
The flute is eternally mine,
But sometimes, a lungful of winds do visit.
As I breathe in and out,
They echo back, unceasingly, never to leave, never in relapse.
The surging waves never damping---the laws of nature, to impudently defy.
It unwinds, tangles, like a tiresome stray,
But the stubborn music, familiar to flute, my child, has come to stay, has come to stay.
The songbird spoke at 2:49 P.M., for the favorite musician of the far off grove.
