On Music

How do I write on You? For You can only be heard, not read! You are the chirping of birds on a foggy, autumn morning. The quiet stroll by a lake. The tinkling of the wind chimes. A lungful of rain-soaked earth.

You are nostalgia. The intricate patterns on the walls of the palace. The yellow of the lamps lighting the courtyard. The anklets and the tabla. Thunder. The heaviness of the rain. Flute. The desolation and longing of the night.

Words were created to communicate thoughts, feelings. But they can be awry at times, out of context,  superfluous. So, You are the last resort of poets. The freedom of the bauls. The ektara, and the dusty Mother Earth. And the heroic sacrifices for Her. The snare drum. 

You are the heat. Sweat and all the desperation. Ridicule, acid dreams and death. You are the rhythm; the distortion, the double bass. Angst and deprivation. Lust and honesty.

You are the prolonged, vibrating note. Sustenance and contemplation. The quiet, relaxing fun-filled party. Good humor and wine. Saxophone and the hi-hat.

You are love. The hues of sensitivity. Melody of the piano. The tremble upon the first kiss. 

You are detachment. The loneliness of the violin. The stagnant sorrow. 

You are hope. The strumming of the guitar. The orange of dawn. The first footsteps of a delighted baby.