Hudkyauli

He speaks in a soft, soft voice
Apparently afraid to raise it
He stumbles as he wonders
What would be the correct thing to say

But when his palms hit the little drum
Something happens to him

He is not even thinking as he sings

The flowers dies, the trees die

so do the seasons, and so do the years

you think the son and the moon

are invincible

but the sun dies in the night

for the moon to rise

which too dies

when dawn breaks

you too will not be on this earth

for very long

and so

lay aside your arrogance, 

man,

and make the most of

this gift of life that yyou have

 

He becomes a god of music
Of song, of lyrics
Who can make you laugh or cry
At his will
A god who wields
The power of rhythm
Harnessed through
Centuries of honing
Until it is perfect
And not a beat is out of sync
A skill an average singer
Or even the occasional great singer
Can only dream of mastering
In a lifetime
A skill that he
Starts hearing and learning
Even before he is born
And that now runs in his blood

A skill that is dying
A slow, agonizing death
And is blazing
In it's last glory
Before it disappears
Suddenly
And completely

Let's blame it on capitalism
Let's blame it on modern media
Let's blame it on easy means of transport
That forced it out of isolation
And face the irony that
It is these blamed things
That enabled me to meet them
In the first place

Let's blame it on other
Means of livelihood
That are not as disrespected
As entertaining
That would make such gods
Give up their power

For sure let's support it
But would anyone be interested
In honing a skill
That was rewarded
The more it invoked the emotions
If they are rewarded
The same every time?

Not to say it shouldn't be supported
It should, as much as possible
And more, to compensate for
Generations of lack

Just to say that
The conditions that created
Such a powerhouse:
The listeners' need
For an all consuming esacpe
Into the world of emotions
And the musician's desperation
For a living
That combined to hone the talent
To such heights
Is diluted, gone
And will never come back

And no amount of support
Will be enough
To keep its spirit alive 

Though the letter may preserve

And we are to blame
For creating a society where
Need is milked for all its worth
And not talent respected
And not confidence nurtured
And not perseverance praised

Today things have changed a little bit
He has been told his talent is great,
Finally, long over-duely
But he still doesn't think
He is equal to those who tell him so
And he will hesitate
To have tea on the same table
With them

But when his palms hit the little drum
He is a different being
Still a god, still magical
Still wondrous, still unaware of it
And so,
For anyone willing to listen,
He sings the song
Of his own gotterdammerung