The Notes Of Healing

In a village where sorrow had silenced the air,

Where crops bowed low in a dusty stare,

He came with a flute carved from cedar and flame—

The healer, unknown, with no need for a name.

He played not words, but wind-born songs,

That drifted where illness and silence belonged.

Each note like a thread through a broken seam,

Sewing the sick into a golden dream.

The old man’s cough, the child's deep cry,

The wilted rose beneath the sky—

They listened closely as breath grew bright,

Bathed in music and morning light.

Even the river, once dried and cold,

Shimmered again like molten gold.

The trees stood tall in softened grace—

Their branches swayed like an old embrace.

And though he vanished like dawn’s first hue,

The notes remained in skies so blue.

For where the flute had kissed the air,

There bloomed a hush, both strong and fair.