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Boy with a Flute

He stands ankle‑deep in sand,
goats nosing the salt air,
their bells a clumsy counterpoint
to the thin breath of his reed.

The tune is not polished—
it wavers, a thread of sound
that seems to remember
something older than the boy himself.

Eyes follow the passing figure:
a woman on wheels,
her hair a sudden banner,
her body a swift refusal.
The goats turn too, their gaze comic,
yet charged with the same ache
that stirs in the boy’s chest.

Desire is always rehearsal:
the first glance,
the first quickening,
the first knowledge
that beauty moves faster
than you can run.

Still he plays,
as if the flute could tether her,
as if breath could bind
what wheels and wind carry away.

The goats shuffle,
the sea keeps its rhythm,
the trail empties.

But the boy’s music lingers—
a fragile claim that life is here,
in the turning of heads,
in the chase that never closes,
in the song born from what escapes.

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