It’s meant to be a release,
but it singes either way.
The ney,
wails reluctantly,
sorrow ensues,
by the breath of the entertainer.
He assumes he fashioned you this grief,
and gives no credit to the flute maker,
who crafted the scale and haunt,
out of nothing more than bamboo and a file,
and assumption of engulfing the mourner with embrace.
Little do both care,
the ney can only cry so much,
before it’s reed is discarded,
and it’s body turned to mulch.
W.E.
lonerloaner 