THE FLUTE

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.