SPRING

Spring was in the air. It blew in the wind, bringing a flush of colour to the roses, the trees and even the sky. Buds blossomed. Water gushed through brooks and streams, rivulets and canals. The air hummed with a bright sense of expectation. Beauty was being conceived, love was in the making.

And Rumi was young again. He had been rejuvenated, returned to the fold of the living by the curative balm of spring. He decided to repay the debt; picking up his reed, he stepped into the spring morning.

Rumi sat down on a river bank bedecked with newly-blossomed flowers, virgin beauty. He raised then reed to his lips and blew…

The magic was instantaneous. Live, pulsating throbs of the reed’s notes danced through the air…call of music…call of nature…Rumi blew and blew, orchestrating every refrain, every fall, pumping, pumping…

They all fell to the spell, every last one of them. New to the world, the flowers felt the irresistible magic of spring and reed…

They were the troupe! As Rumi’s reed picked up the speed, the water in the river roared with greater force, the wind blew faster, the flowers danced to their desire. It was a moment of creation. Rumi sucked at his reed harder, eyes shut; flowers trembled beneath the blow of the music, water burst through the banks…

Overdrive, hyperdrive, climax, in toto!!

Slowly, it all trembled to a halt. Rumi’s reed had stopped. He looked around, smiling. What had only a moment ago been a field of newly-borns was now seasoned beauty in full bloom.

Spring was over for another year.