©Sudipta Bhattacharjee
Dozen's of flutes in my bag to sell,
assorted tunes flare through gale,
thousands of toots becomes
sonic and scattering,
few of them sings for spring,
yet to staving into cadence,
few tunes lives eternal grace,
few perish into the wooden pipes,
Sound's death before the times.
Who came to hear the blast of flute tune
They heard only half of the symphony
Whereabout the secound half?
none searched on behalf
in a accurate agony.
S