After the months of spring,
here in my busy hometown.
Joy that colourful fairs bring,
enveloping every trade of town.
I saw a hawker amongst many,
selling flutes of various tune.
Some cost less than a penny,
right in the start of june.
Flute is now a thing of the past,
with bright toys on the show.
The despaired trader knew at last,
it won't be sold as others know.
The music out of bamboo holes,
took birth thru' nimble fingers.
We who strayed apart in poles,
did cast away the peace bringers.
Prasenjit©1997-2012
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