A crude flute in his hand
With a herd of cattle he would arrive
The green pastures would soon be occupied
He would sit down to enjoy the light and warmth of the morning sun
The hills echo with the music of the dawn
The Sun slowly rises as one giant glowing disk
He would run from end to end in the pastures below
Relishing every bit of it in mellow
He blows life into his flute
For hours he continues to sing
Waiting for any response the lovely air may bring.
But nothing would reach his ears
Heavy hearted he would return
Only to perform the next morn.
The birds, cattle and all life around
Would immerse in his song
Forgetting to respond, they would stand still
Listening to their hearts’ full
The flute is long gone now
But the music still echoes in the hills and beyond
The noises of the dawn now are nothing but his song
For it is a happy one which stays really long.