Newar group contributes to flourishing of flute culture
An empty highway leading to nowhere,
a rock on the bend barring journeyers;
the rock speaks with the grasses and weeds
on the edge of the pitch-black road.
Slowly, a snake slithers out from the
dark crevices of the rock.
The black clouds summon a great
healer. In high spirits, the healer opens up
the very heart of the dull clouds.
Wholeheartedly, they give birth
to countless drops of rain. From above,
the first drop falls slowly, afraid to be
the first to touch the hot, sordid earth.
Against its will, it hits the concrete, forever
contaminating itself with the crimes of the soil.
A car passes through a tunnel-
dark and beset with the horrors
of varied material commotion -
as if into blackness.
A momentary void and the rider sees the greenery along the welcoming road as the tunnel ends.
Inside the car: two beautiful children look out of the car window with curious eyes.
As the young boy lays his hand out of the window, a rain drop touches his soft hands;
he feels the cool warmth of the raindrop.
Soon, the wipers in the front start working
as fast as they can. An occasional grasshopper
or a bird barely escapes death from
hitting the car.
From a tiny little house in the hills, a dying farmer looks at the red car coming out of the
tunnel. He is wrapped in the warm blanket in his verandah, smoking his tobacco-filled wooden hukkah pipe, the smokes rhythmically morphing into the fog
in the serene sky. One of his
daughters changes the coals for the
hukkah and the old man looks out into the
infinite sky beyond the mountains.
The End and the Beginning merge:
the wet ground assumes a soft personality.
The yellow sunlight hits the rain-soaked landscape.
The docile reptiles meekly crawl into
crystal clear rivers. As if given a new life,
the butterflies shake off the water from their
tender colorful wings.
And, the collage of life feels whole and beautiful as the flute player plays an eternal melody in the mysterious mountains.
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