by Thomas Davis
When the flute of my songs speak,
The rushes on the riverside move,
And the gray nets of time
Spread out in the seas of life
To catch the tiny fish, man.
O love, can you not hear?
The whisper of the rivers is no more
Than the flute of my songs.
The unthawing ice breaking in winter
With thunderous booms of music
Is only a single, insignificant note.
When I praise your beauty
The mountains listen with valley ears,
And the deserts repeat my praise
In the patterns of their shifting sands.
O love, can you not listen?
Can you not hear the flute of my songs?
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