When the night whispers

The traffic does not stop even at night. It just whispers below my window.

Every night there are different sounds slipping in through my open window from the city beyond. Sometimes it is the wailing cry of the ambulance or the hum of late night traffic. Sometimes it is the murmur of chatter below or the errant verse of song, found somewhere in the bottle of a young troup. Tonight however I thought the sounds was a fantom. Some creation of my imagination. But as I sit and listen to the night outside the sweet whistle of the irish flute is singing through my window. Somewhere out in the twinkling lights of the city someone is playing the sweet sad melodies of Ierland. I will dream of rain and the lush green land of the melody tonight.

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