LAST CYCLE © 2008
The whistle emerged from anonymity
And was recorded on the music score,
In the usual embarrassment of a novice
It was humble not to use the tip.
It saved its youthfulness for the right time,
Waiting to be called at the town festivals,
On stage, with an open heart,
Shout its truth to the world.
It would be a soft, sweet melody,
In the laughter and summer dances,
But when sorrow tightened its chest,
It would unleash the cry of its anguish.
A deep cry, tearing through the sky and the sea,
Capable of stirring the calmest waters,
Revolting the space, with nothing to hold back,
Like a urn lying empty of souls.
And to the virgins, bent in desire,
He would whisper, without ferar, or desire,
A deep secret, almost a moment,
In a look that would be lost in silence.