Mohican man of music Alexandro Querevalu

Out of history he cometh
To this sidewalk in the light
A wooden flute a shell rattle and a voice
That has some might
A clarity its uninvoloved
A directness from the soul
All that breath of the ancestor
Conjured, into that role

A forcefulness apparent
An incisiveness that we
Can absorb with such elegance
And just stand there and be
Enthralled by all that super breath
The music of the hills
The purity the harmony
It just gives you the chills

The affection of the moment
The sensory accord
The reaction of the waiting ears
That take on a reward
But do they see his history
Do they know or care
Are they simply biding time
And passing standing there

He gives them his rendition
All his throaty skills
A beautiful impression
The flutes it kind of fills
Our hearts with sparkling rivers
With purple mountains sides
The tepees in the evening mists
Where a puma possibly hides

We feel those emotive questions
The overwhelming charm
The ecstatic and emphatic
The haunting measured calm
Its passionate its effusive
How does one respond
The audience just peels away
No matter how fond

The Mohican sits and rocks and sings
His flute flies ever on
The music of the mountain streams
That flow until they are gone
Across the whole green wilderness
Into a spirit world
Whose joyfulness is in the clouds
Wherever its been hurled