American Indian Flute Song
The American Indian flute song,
Played in my office all day long.
Evoking images of lonely, wide plains,
Of the American frontier of olden days,
Where the horses ran down the praries.
My ears heard the song as lonely musical notes.
The nighttime prarie seemed empty,
The wigwams with their stars above,
Standing with no sound around,
In a three-thousand mile wide nation,
That was soon to be alone.
The Cherokee nation didn't matter,
Neither the Navajho,
Just the other,
Caught in a race of total subjugation.
Not knowing the karma it would pay,
For the tragedies of both races,
Both travelling in irreversible paths,
Lead to the fall of North American Earth.
I turned off the flute music.
Then I left my office for lunch…
Now the flow of the traffic,
The noise of the honks,
The buildings looming high,
Scraping the sky.
The freeways a mess,
The favorite music station incoherent.
The lunch hour traffic way too fast.
The sun rays shining on this polluted Earth,
Climate changes or weather got wrong?
And the clogged-up sidewalks to walk upon,
Made everyone go back to their offices.
To hear the American Indian flute music,
Kicked-up a slight notch now.
The flute didn't sound at all,
This flute put me in a frame of mind,
Where peace could dwell and peace could find.
Vera Sidhwa's Other Poems
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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