The Silent Song

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.