The Flutist

Rising early with the beautiful dawn,

Before the sun’s glittering rays were born,

He gathered all his wealth in a bundle,

In an ox drawn cart he trundled.

His wealth was not in coins of gold,

Just his polished trophies, now old.

His gold colored flute wrapped in a rag,

And some old cloths stuffed in a bag.

Music of gods once flew from his flute,

Throngs and crowds did hail and salute.

Now his lips have fallen in paralyzed sleep,

Only fond memories and the bundle he keeps.