FLUTE PLAYERS AND GUNMEN
In the depths of
the memory of the dead,
The living found
a silent voice
Where the flutes
ambient sound was a mirage,
Of the beautiful
beauty of a fervent doubt
Ringing in the
air,
It’s sound the
trouble of all afflictions.
Here voices
spoke with no words
Than the dirge
of a fallen hallelujah.
In the darkness
of the earth’s great light,
The cannons sang
the laughter of the living.
Where the dead
ran with their bravery,
And the living
sought the grim case of cowardice.
Lost upon the
impression of a stolen smile,
The cannons
roared as the night showed its light.
The joyous
painting of silent tears.
Flute players
and gunmen,
Lines between
infallible truths.
Cowards and
brave words,
Dividing the
lines between untainted disguise,
Dirges and
collage of uncased blood,
Setting the tone
for a night of never ending music.
Are you playing
the flute or the gun?
The flute sways
slowly in the memory of the wind,
Its soothing
voice carries the sight of a skeptic.
A motion of
words and compassion in sound,
Shown to the
light to numb the blight.
Flute players
are men who sought to live,
And in living
find the paradise unknown.
The flute player
is everyone who has lived.
The gun speaks
the language of silent revolution,
Controlled by
the fear of what could be.
The gunmen say
the decree of violence,
By trying to
justify their haven of blood.
But what justice
has ever come from spilling death?
Would death be
the savior?
Where love was
never tried?
A flute player
and a gunman,
Are different
parts of every man.
In the depths of
our indecision,
We must pick a
tune to savor the moment,
Are you one with
the flutes thoughtful sound?
Or are you the
rapturous beat of the gun?
Find your space
and decide.
Comments
Post a Comment