Immortal
air
Dead
in the flute
Lying
on the ground
Once,
many tunes were born
Wrote
stories of angels,
From
the gaps of gasping breaths
Painted
pictures, in the whistling air
Entertained
rivers floating through the nerves
Its
intercourse with fingers melted snows and stones.
Now,
those feelers no longer
Give
a hand to the dancing air; they have left
Leaving
the flute as a mere instrument
They
are now occupied, engaged
To
craft and build structures of a different bent
Mud
has choked the flute.
No
room, no space inside; to flirt, caress
Even
from close
It
looks like a stick, made of stone
Ready
for a new role
Outcast
air urges the leaves to fall
And
cover its mate.
Lying
on the ground
Dead
in the flute
Immortal
air
No comments:
Post a Comment