The Flute Poem by Pankajam Kottarath

The slender tube
feeds my senses with mellowed music.

Tell me
if I have to thank

the dead wood that goes into it
or the craftsman who shaped it?

the lips that blows
or the artist who lends his breath?

the vacuum inside the hollow abyss,
or else the wind that passes through?

the finger holes,
or the transient air billowing out?

Tell me if it owes
to the sound waves in the air,
the force that allows it to travel
or the chords that touch my mind.

Tell me.