The Flutist

All my childhood songs I handed over a flutist. He tuned up a joyful melody, but his face remained melancholic as if covered with a long shadow of afternoon. After all these days, I've forgot that face. Yet, whenever I see any flutist carefully I observe his face: Are all the flutes played in the same tune? All the faces bear same shadow? Does a flutist gather and deposit all the lost faces on his own face? You've extended the joint-shadow of us horizontal both the directions, Still face to face, we the vertically opposite altitudes on that extended line. At far off, once again, being played the same song: silent, melodious and blue, That lyrics are running through silence; You were just here before a while, yet, alas! winds whispering of your existence! I, hereby, promise you, were I reborn, I would be a flutist.