His flute-stand awaits someone,

on the corner of the busy road.

Stretching its flutes, like a firecracker

slowly emitting its sparkling sparks.

One of its sparks falls in his hand,

He, the flute player, holds it to his lips,

breathing fresh life into his bansuri,

sending his blows to awaken me.

I open my eyes and stretch my arms.

Stepping out of my bed,

I hold my notes by their arms,

and summon the tunes wandering somewhere.

Holding my notes and tunes in my arms,

I splash out of the holes,

Spilling them all outside and yet,

holding some inside.

I step into the old but new world,

When I see her approaching,

holding a backpack of anxieties

held together by some responsibilities.

My eyes walk towards her,

Examining her moist eyes

And her brown hair,

which rest over her shoulders.

I obambulate around her,

trying to take her bag off.

She senses me perhaps,

and tightens her grip on the bag.

I dive into her ears,

looking for some path,

through her red arteries,

to her red heart.

I step; I stop.

She loosens her grip,

On the strap of the bag,

She, most reluctantly, was holding.

I crawl and crawl, slowly.

I crawl and fall, suddenly.

I scan the place around,

and smile, finding my destination.

There, in her heart, I danced.

I danced, I danced my heart out.

Moving my feet, twisting my fingers,

I danced, I danced without any care.

I listened; she said- to the flute player,

"Your art has a duende."

And I feel something heavy,

being thrown away, forever.

I chuckle, repeating her words in my way,

“I have a duende.”

And I leave a part of me in her,

For her to be a duende herself.