Area personale- Login
Cerca in questo BlogMenuChi puņ scrivere sul blog
Solo l'autore puņ pubblicare messaggi in questo Blog e tutti gli utenti registrati possono pubblicare commenti.
|
Post n°10 pubblicato il 13 Settembre 2013 da paintingsframe
Neither rain nor heat nor wind were as faithful as Surien. After each day’s toil, he laid down the rags of a labourer and took up the mantle of a musician. He played his flute well. He played every day, practising his art with the patience of a craftsman whittling away at imperfection. The notes he drew from it were like tendrils; smoke rising from his pipe of life. As he blew into the dark tube, his breath stirred the passions he had nurtured with the purity of new melodies.
Surien was lonely. He dreamed also. His fingers played the longings of his soul to be larger than it was. He imagined he was speaking to the giver of dreams, and that his sounds were simple prayers asking for more than he dared hope to gain. He was glad that no-one complained about his flute practice.
One day, an important black car came to that dusty corner of town. The mayor’s daughter looked down from her window and squealed with delight, rushing to pack her suitcases for her trip to stardom. But the car had come to bear away the musician, taking him far off to an unknown but hopeful future. She watched him go, carrying nothing but his flute case and a canvas sack, and the collective dreams of his listeners.
Appreciate this Henri Rousseau painting
https://blog.libero.it/paintingsframe/trackback.php?msg=12357238 I blog che hanno inviato un Trackback a questo messaggio: Nessun Trackback Commenti al Post:
Nessun Commento
|