The Flutist

[Ali Znaidi]

This space used to feed on the birds chirrups, but

all the boughs now lie over there burnt.

 

When the chimneys emitted their black soundless chirrups,

sound and sight became interchangeable terms.

 

The moonlights became amputated by the black whales

of the sky. The echoes of the chirrups crawled from far

away and became incoherent.

 

The chirrups became clear when that exquisite chalice

of wine made the flutist survive in this chaos, just mused by

the authentic sounds of the tweets lingering in his ears.

Just this little instrument in this urban chaotic place

was enough.