The Flute

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.

More fortunate than I?

The fair has come to town today,

And the mud roads I trample,

In earnesty, to kick up the dust with trinket-bound feet,

And a traveler’s stories to hear.

The tramps are all huddled and still,

The travelers bicker and joke,

The accomplished smile through fish teeth,

And showcase treasures galore.

We endured the far off lands,

And these are our trophies, they say,

Trudging through the desert sands,

Foreign mountains and orange sun in may.

To win and fight for all that’s sought,

We plundered fearlessly, and sacrificed,

And this is the fruit of sweat and blood,

The sweet riches that in pockets jingle.

It means we’re brave, and there’s no cause for treason,

It robbed us of our youth and age,

And yet, we are the kings of our lands and reason,

Reasoned the old man today.

He felt himself a fortunate creature,

And I was glad that he couldn’t see,

The veil that hid the coal-black eyes,

Brimming with genuine pity.

I left the tramps to gape at glimmering treasures,

Founded and unfounded,

For they might win a thousand more,

And never as I, be fortunate.

In my heart, I know love,

And to be loved back, ardently,

With all I hold dear to me.

That, more than he!

For he was but foolhardy,

To travel the many lands and fight,

Historic wars and fatigue,

To collect for himself a few coins

Pitiable!

And for I might be just a somebody,

Who’s little and doesn’t matter much,

But in my heart I am satisfied,

That I am fortunate, more than that shallow soul gone awry.

And hence, I walked away, more prosperous than everybody.

For the richest fortunes are intangible, you see.