THE FLUTE (OR MURALI) When Thou broke this piece Away from its mother bush Oh, how it hurt my Lord ! And how the bamboo cursed When it Thy knife pierced And left gaping wounds ! But Thy lips touched it, Thy sweet breath filled it, It found itself a flute And ever since then It never ceased to sing. *** *** But why folk and funny tunes And not the classic ones The Flute could never find Nor does greatly mind For, it is Thy hands that hold And Thy breath that flows.
