flutes every song of the earth as joy pours from the first heartbeat of a mute foetus to the last pulse rising and falling as empires are vanquished in finite time
his sound at a wake rising like a curlicue of smoke from crisp dawn to cremation at the other extremity of our days
he plays in the key of silence at funerals
then unbridled joy at happier times
then the echo of a subtle melody
leaves memory as if it never drew the breath of God
the air behind its exodus a vacuum in an etherium
it can never be sung nor plucked again even from the strings of luthiers
Flynnpoetry 