The Flautist

Serene he listens,
And calm.
His hair is a tussled shock,
But his face is fair.
His neck is firm and graceful,
That of Apollo or Adonis,
Of some god enthroned on Olympus.
No instruments held in his hand,
He harks to the silence,
Voices of light,
Hymns of the air vibrations of time…
A moment that lasts in allegro.
His symphonies those of life,
His scales of being itself.
“My instrument is the flute!”
Has he avowed it?
Mozart made one that was magic,
In ecstasy to be heard.
Is the musician forever attentive
To his Creator’s voice?
Such is the silent music
That comes from the voices of quiet.

Joseph Matar
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Translated from French: K.J.Mortimer