He plays dulcet tunes of his village streams
And the many nubiles he loved from far.
He strains, trembles on tunes of splintered dreams
And in wanton tweets, drapes many a scar.
I meet a song’s eye, and lo! mine are wet
It’s the wind, the dust, the singing reed’s play
That shakes the tree above, and sands upset,
Lest why’d I cry, Oh! stop your grave essay.
In breath you rise and in others, breath pause
In lack and surfeit you breeze Divine laws.