Who would bring back the beauty that lives in mystic past day’s melodies?
And all the light and air I breathed when summer dawn was in a song.
The sweet voices; the moan of the wind that awakes the dreaming airs that throng
Within my cherished and haunted memories
The scent and voices of the past that sank within the time seas
When I was a boy who forgot to listen, floated in fields and meadows along
The summer wind moaned undercurrent soft and strong.
And a shepherd piped for lambs and goats beneath the trees;
Along the purple hills of drifted sand,
A lone in solitary boy played an ancient flute;
At dawn the house cow silhouette gave his old salute
Beside the dry river bed the reeds by desert breezes fanned.
The music faints about me as I contemplate
In my head the sound of that remote flute
I wish I was an orphan; my soul trembles mute
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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