As I stand there, listening to the known noises;
Wish I were not there, wish I were deaf.
The evening hours, bringing with it,
Along with an end to the Sun’s routine,
The men and women, cramped in their desks till now;
Flow out like mice from the city sewer.
Filling the streets with the voice of modernisation;
A QUIET EVENING, A needle in a sack of hay,
I feel my life being squeezed from all around;
I stand here in the corner of a bustling modern town.
I let my brain wander in the darkness;
To close my eyes, I see no need;
Never seen the colour of light all my life.
I feel my brain drifting away from the congestion around me;
My heart making tunes of its own in my lonely delight.
I place my hat on the wooden bench;
Position myself for the personal opera.
As my breath makes its way across the wooden passage;
My fingers blocking their escape with utter precision.
A plethora of musical notes flowing through my brain;
Releasing them into the emptiness of space I feel around me.
My flute, though not the modernest of instruments;
Yet gives way to the world of musical riches.
I float with my music in synchronised harmony;
What next in life, I don’t seem to care.
The little chunks of metal falling into the half torn hat;
Money, these are all I yearn for, the crazy world thinks.
A few of these coins won’t make you any less richer;
The music you are missing, I bet, makes you poorer.
Nature’s sounds, in man’s hands,
Not appreciated by the mechanised heart.
A pure listener is all I need;
My life reflected by the soothing music;
Till death no one to care, nor to heed.
The voice of a lonely man with a gift;
Vanishes along with the busy winds.
All that remains, of this sad soul;
A lifeless flute with no fingers to caress it
and a half torn hat, a poor soul’s crown.