In the park, where leaves rustle free,
a young lad stands, oh so serene,
his skin of darkest hue, like night,
and naught but wind whispers through his sight.

He holds aloft a whistle black as coal,
to lips pressed tight, his breath does control,
no sound escapes, no note is heard,
yet music fills the air, unfurled.

With every beep, a secret tale,
of dreams and wonder, fails not to sail,
though mortal ears may not perceive,
this melody of pure belief.

Animals and birds take flight,
for they sense the beauty of this sight,
but human hearts remain closed tight,
unable to hear the sweet delight.

So let us marvel at this scene,
where magic fills the morning sheen,
for though we may not comprehend,
this black boy's song will never end.

(napisano k fantu s piščalko v parku Tivoli - Ljubljana)

Tomaž Jevšenak