The strings of the santoor lie loose,<\/p>\n
The notebook bearing five-hundred compositions is covered with dust,<\/p>\n
Where is the music that filled these rooms,<\/p>\n
Where has the santoor maestro gone?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
His absence was first withstood puritanically now it has begun to hurt,<\/p>\n
Where has the captain gone, leaving a vast unfinished work,<\/p>\n
Where has the man of inner harmony disappeared,<\/p>\n
How do we give meaning to the vast chaos of human life?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
While he lived in the ever so tumultuous world,<\/p>\n
He never was a part it, he kept his muses away,<\/p>\n
He followed an inner tune, he deferred to a different reason,<\/p>\n
His double-life was a shield as well a way-shower.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Come back in the blossoming season of flowers,<\/p>\n
Come back in the stirring season of rains,<\/p>\n
Come back in the uplifting season of autumn,<\/p>\n
Come back in the mysterious season of snows.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Suffern, New York, September 7, 2024<\/p>\n