The Call Of The Flute Poem by sundaram chandrakalaadhar

the call of the flute haunts me,
makes me restless like a dove in lust,
an unbearable pain hooks me aloft,
swings me back and forth violently -
try to chain myself to my dark corner,
but the call invincible and unyielding,
spreads a magic web around me,
tears me from my shackles in brute force - -
o insistent and heartless is the call,
is it the call to love or death?
drills my flesh and bones
to pierce into my heart;
seems to be near at ears' grasp,
not so, appears far away
from beyond seas and hills;
has the roar of the seas
and the chill of the mountains
and the blue of the poison -
wriggle like a worm pricked by sun!
the one instrument, the flute,
o dear, that knows only to torment,
only to pierce the hearts
with its merciless hot darts,
do not play on that heartless reed!
how sharp and shrill does it raise its pitch
through its lined-up holes
sawing my hearts to tiny bits!
what do you mean?
mean to kill me aiming your lance-like calls?
have no strength, no breath to talk,
overdose me with your potion of poison -
rest your flute and save my spirit -
o god, who invented this ruthless flute
that licks the lips but kills the soul!
feel coreless, sapless
and crumble to dust in its mindless blasts;
have mercy on me
and no more of your flute!

- -s.chandra kalaadhar
07.02.2013 / Thursday / 6 p.m.