The flute calls out, leaping across bar-lines,
A girl, her eyes closed and hair loose,
Swaying in time, the instrument resting below her gentle lips,
Using her precious breath to grace the air,
With a pure beauty, as if calling to the rivers,
As if those notes were crafted for these hills,
And separated long ago,
But their connection only strengthened,
And now her breaths stir the grass,
And brush against the leaves.