The vision 
this little poem is about the real way
Some have forgotten some seemed to sway
The half moon is light of new dawn
It is time for the flautist, the sun rise of his day.
It is the peak of his life,
to go unfortold To a magical place called the ....
No one as been there, because nobody knows
That the spirit itself is the one who has called.
The magic has been such, that many have written
the story of one, but one is that flautist that have lead them away. To the point of conjunction, to the place that is called the center of lines,
a mind of it`s own, or the warriors way. So it is time for a flutist to bring this new dawn
That all possibilities WILL BE surly forgone.
To invent this new language, the tongue of the hearts
To play it, and walk it, and dream it about.
If you have heard his music, you know, it is sad.
and for longing, it captures your soul
it is sad as you know you must go.
but your body is unable, to let go of his hold.
to move to the music, to truly be bold.
But yet the music still lingers,
not to be followed but as, a real note
to the composer itself, that some of us know.
And we still do follow those haunting notes
of unearthly music played by unearthly fingers
walked on unearthly toes.
The day is not breaking
but it is nearing the point where
the night of the dreamer
Be followed by a true living day.
When the music will play, in the hearts of the few
to go to that point of conjunction, that center of all
the place where the music as lead all along . This morning twilight is the last hold of known
The flautist has waited, not for someone unknown,
but for his completion, to cleanse his own music,
for the truest of tunes, a tune he can own.
So the day is now breaking, even if the star
of the dreamer still lurks in the sky
or a cloud may obstruct him From the view of the eye.
The music is playing, to the strings of the world,
A voyage beginning to that place unfortold,
To The heart of the world. |
