The Flautist Poem by Charl JF Cilliers
The Flautist
She urgently blew air down
the polished wand of wood
and with her fingers plucked out sounds
in her castaway solitude.
The sun spun haloes
in her hair, and in the air
each tenuous adagio
hung suspended like a flare,
a tiny sun, a far-spun star:
those to whom the urgent pleas
were cast were themselves adrift, far
beyond reach on their own turbulent seas.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/23/2024 10:35:47 AM # 1.0.0.1119
