The Flautist

The flute...the flute, the boy could play. My God! The boy could play the flute! Such gentle hand, such nimble limb'd ability, on Pan's sweet air's, that faun's and satyr's stood in cues to watch the thing.

He'd play. The boy would play, where, all the audience around, aroused...had never known such play.
He is a brightly gifted boy, confessed...the flautist's impresario. His lips so soft upon the horn, as if, unto the god's...were born.

His song, continued on, until the day, consumed, and all whom he had played upon...lay too, to dream the dreams that only lover's know, as fainly tangled 'mong each other's twigs...the satyr's swain dream'pt too.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: A satyr and a boy with flute, google art