It's strange the people we pass and yet not experience...if only we look in their silence we just might hear the echoes of their life. Such was a time on this winters day...
As I passed his fingers were pressing the silent keys with loving art, and the flute he was caressing with the silence of his heart. "Play something for me maestro"...in his fading eyes was a story of life that was written fair. The morning sun glowing and warmed the winter in his hair. There was a glow of un extinguished embers deep in his eyes, as he nodded and begin to smile. A youthful smile. Strange how all the silver marrows still have a golden yesterday.
Now the flutist, bowed and slender no longer marks the time to the baton's lead, but he begin to breathe a message tender through his mind and that mellow reed. The melody came with the wisdom of the ages, pulsing with the ebb and flow. It was a melody laden with the lore of the sages from a land so long ago.
His fading eyes was a story of a life that was written fair, as the glowing sun warmed the winter in his hair..every movement he rendered, sanctified his days of yore, and yes, the slender instrument echoed a tender reverence of a glorious score.
The sound strolled down the street where love and youth once strolled, through the flute's narrow ally, he was breathing out his soul... and his fingers pressed the silent keys with loving art and the flute he was caressing from the silence of his heart...
I called him Maestro...thanks for the lesson...you and the silence of your heart will never part.
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