Birthed from the silver flute, musical notes skipped into the universe as flattest stones upon mirrored lake top. Yet its radiating waves neither vanished nor diminished in a two dimensional plane. The waves as a sphere did travel, gaining momentum at ethereal speed, gaining light as a willing partner.
Only the fingerprint of a fairy queen can make the magic flute sing. Without her, though it plays, its sound is the same as any other silver yard. Centuries have come. Centuries have gone. To the English heart it holds equivalence to the sword of Arthur. And so, when we heard its tune and felt its magical surge, we held our collective breath. Could it be true? Was this it? Had the fairy queen returned?
The flute sang to the stars until their deepest hearts did pulse. In return the heavens did not sing, yet poured as water into the valley and remained there as star-freckled blackest ink. This, my friends, is no legend of old, for I saw it with my own eyes. I felt it with my own hands. I swam in its perfect ambiance, for it was both warm and sweet. As I dived within the flute music returned and oxygen did inflate my lungs. My pilot light burned brighter, swelling my heart anew. The flute I played that day is with me still, a humble yard of silver, a 'cup and string' telephone that divinity chose to answer.
Within the antique flute the promise of centuries past, the promise of love's ever-flutter, suffocated in frozen brass. Its long silenced reed clung to eon's spittle as if old man time could reverse his tide. Tarnished, keys seized, it was reduced to little more than a pointless stick.
In dawn’s emboldening rays, the flute sleeps. All the dayshine hours it dreams, reed still, brassy keys at rest. Then, come the eventide, at light lip’s command, its dovish hoots are conjured forth. Night isn’t night as its notes resonate to fill the auditorium. With eyes wide shut, its sound transports us to the height of summer in every season.
No matter the time of day, my flute is my light. No matter the season, my flute is my fire. No matter the silence or the roar of sound around, my flute can be heard in my soul at all times. I have learned to live through my art in a way other artists will resonate with.
My flute was my magic wand for it conjured the best of me no matter the weather, no matter the challenges. If it was in my fingers, the best of me materialised.
My flute music was my most delicate and loving heart leaping into the ether, as if it had the power to transmit the real me right into you.
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