A silver melody takes flight,
Where desert sands meet ancient night.
Half-bound to earth by twisted root,
He breathes his soul into the flute.
A wing of branches, gnarled and old,
Unfurls beneath a beam of gold,
While from the wood, the music springs,
And notes transform to soaring wings.
No longer locked in dust and stone,
The dreamer does not walk alone;
For every breath and hollow strain
Awakes the sky above the plain.