The flute player
Nehtinthang Haokip *
At odd hours this time around
When none bother to look up to see;
The beautiful night sky yonder
A sleepless and restless soul he
Dry hands of his fumbles over a flute.
A single blow: crude and hoarse
Then follows another one; sweeter
He began tiptoeing slow and tender
Like the beaming moon above.
Between the pitch, though, sorrow reigns.
His flute: light and hollow
So is his soul all but weary
The pipe bellows; yesteryear's bliss beckons.
I know not the song he plays
It was nothing but tender and mellow.
Will the one he played for care to listen?
A tune so remorseful and in dire wanting.
There and here it wanders; lost.
And weave a cloud of raspy music
Like waves crashing against the rocky shore.
It shook the dungeon inside of me;
A wreckage floating nowhere.
Draining himself in sorrow pool
When will he stop? Will he ever?
Find he a solace but only in sorrow.
Days of yore bore his heart.
Let him be, let him be.
* Poem written by Nehtinthang Haokip for The Sangai Express
This poem was webcasted on 27 September 2018.
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