(A Tribute to Flutist Dipak Sarma)
A Flute Falls Silent
Heramba Nath
The flute lies still upon the floor,
No breath to wake its song once more,
Yet in the hush of evening air,
His soul still sings — it lingers there.
The bamboo weeps, the wind now sighs,
A note ascends, then softly dies,
But echoes roll through time and tear,
For Dipak’s tune is everywhere.
He played not just for mortal ears,
But for the sky, the stars, the years,
Each raga born from nature’s core,
Each tone a prayer — forevermore.
From Brahmaputra’s golden light,
To silent hills in moonlit night,
His flute would tell what hearts conceal —
The pain we hide, the love we feel.
O Maestro of the gentle breeze,
Your breath once danced among the trees,
Now heaven waits — the gods shall hear
The same pure strain that blessed us here.
No death can still such sacred art,
It lives within Assam’s soft heart,
And through each breeze, each bamboo frame,
Resounds again your hallowed name.
Sleep now, O flutist, calm and deep,
While mortals mourn and rivers weep,
Your song, like dawn, will rise anew —
For sound divine was born in you.