Sunny moves her hands to the Peruvian flute,
Smooths away the angers in the blood,
Pounds out the grief from the insides of lungs,
Makes muscles that held the impossible yield to bay-rummed touch.
She is even grateful for you,
Feels your pain with her eyes,
Turns it into a smile that is all you
Although there is only her inside,
Like she is empty where you are
And you have nothing that is hers:
The brave way she navigates the mystery
Without needing to think where she is.
That is the way she heals us,
By exorcising the demon of mind
That always lurks, always waits
For a better explanation
When none was ever necessary,
And the words the flute sings
Can be heard through the waves they turned into,
How there is consolation in living.
