An instrument you may be

you hold souls of old

and play the merry spirits of past days.

You speak of sorrow,

and of joy,

and many emotions in between.


Your silver sheen

reflects both


and inner beauty.

And there,

one sees true wealth.


A gorgeous voice

you possess

from a silent whisper

to a glorious aria

you captivate your audience.


Old wooden flutes

were your ancestors,

and it was they that taught you,

taught you to play the joy of the past,

the sorrow of tomorrow,

and the ever-present now.


You are the absolute monarch,

with undisputed reign

over the band.

You play the enchanting melody,

and your subordinates

support you underneath.


Wielding a voice like a person would a weapon,

you cause some to stand at attention

with a shrill call.

Other times,

you sing a soothing lullaby,

and dreams await those who hear you.



I just want to add that this poem can also be found on my writing tumblr novellaninny.

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