The Flute Seller...

I know its been a long time, but here it is

The Flute Seller

On Sunday Mornings,

I sit and eagerly wait,
by my Window, for that soothing gait,
of distant melodies,
to flit past.

Played on a flute, unseen,
by an invisible basuriwalla, a fluteseller, I mean,
who strolls, (I think) with his pipes and reeds,
playing his salutes, his thoughts, his pleas.

His yet unseen flutes I never do buy,
but look for him every seventh day,
hoping that he passes me by,
as he goes about his blessed way.

On a Sunday Morning, I do awake,
I do sit, and break my fast,
but my mind does only wait,
for those distant, distant, so distant,

sweet melodies to flit past.