His footsteps echo in forest path,
Wanders unknowingly, why he incurred
the wrath.
Run as he may, to the corners of the
earth, reprieve isn’t found,
And so, he takes out his flute,
letting his anguish unbound.
Stops beneath the shades of a tree,
the memories torment,
Inhales the bloom of jasmine, yet
reminded of the scent.
Words aren’t enough; through the
flute he conveys,
And the symphonies bring out what has
been suppressed for many a days.
The rustle of the leaf and the
chirrup of birds slowly fade,
As the wind pauses; still becomes
every grass blade.
Ripples in water die under this
symphony so intense.
Poignantly rendered, the music itself
becomes the silence.
With every forced breath and rising
octave, the storm in him subsides,
Human in this moment, revealing what
otherwise he hides.
Higher and higher, the octaves engulf
his every sinew,
Even the nature sheds a tear, the
foliage soaked in dew.
As he reaches the zenith, grasping
for air,
Breaking the reverie that was too
much to bear.
A wry smile on his lips, as he starts
trudging along,
Time remains still though, caught in the
rendition of the silent song.
