Sagot :
Réponse :
A distant melody reaches my ears, and I see him in the distance, crouched at the foot of a tree. “What are you doing?” I call out in alarm.
He doesn’t look up, concentrated on blowing into a hollowed piece of wood, producing the beautiful melody.
“Music,” he murmurs in between notes. He pauses, then, to glance at me. And he begins to make odd noises with his mouth.
I shake my head in bewilderment.
“Humming,” he explains.
This “music” of his is remarkably foreign. All the music we are used to nowadays is generated by computerised audio. None is music of our own individual making, in the ancient manner of our ancestors. No one hums, and certainly no one carved their own instruments out of wood on which to play mournful, melodious airs.
I join him, walking with brisk alacrity to where he sits upon the grass in solemn contemplation. Watching Ed has suddenly given me a new idea: perhaps I too will learn to make music of my own. Perhaps I will use my voice, and accompany his playing.
Explications :
