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lirik lagu d.j. enright - the noodle vendor's flute

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in a real city, from a real house
at midnight by the ticking clocks
in winter by the crackling roads:
hearing the noodle~vendor’s flute
two single fragile falling notes…
but what can this small sing~song say
under the noise of war?
the flute itself is counterfeit
(siberian wind can freeze the lips)
merely a rubber bulb and metal h~rn
(hard to ride a cycle, watch for manholes
and late drunks, and play a flute together)
just squeeze between gloved fingers
and the note of mild hopе sounds:
release, thе indrawn sigh of mild despair…
a poignant signal, like the cooee
of some diffident soul locked out
less than appropriate to cooling macaroni
two wooden boxes slung across the wheel
a rider in his middle age, trundling
this gross contraption on a dismal road
red eyes and nose and breathless rubber h~rn
yet still the pathos of that double tune
defies its provenance, and can warm
the bitter night
sleepless, we turn and sleep
or sickness dwindles to some local limb
bought love for one long moment gives itself
or there a witch assures a frightened child
she bears no personal grudge
and i, like other listeners
see my stupid sadness as a common thing
and being common
therefore something rare indeed
the puffing vendor, surer than a trumpet
tell us we are not alone
each night that same frail midnight tune
squeezed from a bogus flute
under the noise of war, after war’s noise
it mourns the fallen, every night
it celebrates survival —
in real cities, real houses, real time


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