Once in my city, there lived a flutist,

Once in my city
There lived a flutist
And me remembers
How He would play
His fingers on the flute
Blowing air through
Piping folk dreams
Into the heart ...
And on a rainy morn such
He would set a tune
Of a park getting drenched by curious love,
Or a tea stall opened to carry warmth of earth,
He would set His tune such
A flutist carrying souls for a long march...

Once in my city
There lived a flutist
And me remembers
How He would play
His fingers on the flute
Blowing air new
Piping a generous dream
Into the hearts of all
In closed doors living,
And on a rainy morn such
He would set a tune
Of a lone chaplin sitting
On a bench somewhere waiting
For rhododendrons to bloom
He the flutist would thus set the lovely cool.

(Note: remembering 'banshiwallah', and Gautam Chattopadhdhyay)