The legend of the pipe

The legend of the pipe

One day, Young Breeze, frolicking over the mountains, noticed a small tree growing on one of the cliffs. Its branches were completely covered with a boil of large snow-white flowers, exuding a refined intoxicating scent. Wind had never met such trees before, and therefore immediately rushed towards it. Barely touching his delicate colors, he heard amazingly beautiful sounds that miraculously began to take shape in the melody. From now on, Breeze could not leave this tree, and played on the petals of its flowers day and night, enjoying the magic music.

But soon the Supreme Wind found out about it, and with all its fury fell on the mountains, wiped out all life from the face of the Earth and dispelled the tattered foliage into dust. But Breeze could save his tree - he covered it with himself. Cowering from the icy gusts of his Master, he gently hugged and held each branch to himself. And then the High Wind completely became angry and said to Breeter: "You love your tree? Do you think you will stay with him forever. Forget what it means to fly above the ground, because if you take off, your flowering tree will immediately die." But this did not scare Breeze, he decided to stay on the rock forever.

Soon the flowers were replaced by emerald foliage, and then aromatic fruits of the color of the sun appeared. Melodies on foliage and fruits sounded more wonderful and wonderful, and Breeze did not regret his choice at all.

Autumn came. The fruits on the tree have ripened and crumbled long ago, and the foliage has withered and opal. No matter how Breeze tried to go through the bare branches, they made no sound. His heart began to torment the evil longing. With sadness, he observed his brothers, who were running over the mountains, circling fallen golden leaves in whirlwinds. I could not stand Breeze, and left his tree. And as it was predicted by Vladyka, in one instant it died - the branches crumbled to ashes, and the roots turned into faded grass. It remains to lay on the rock only one reminder of the once beautiful and flowering tree - one single twig, in which a tiny particle of wind entangled.

A few years later, this twig was found by a village boy who collected brushwood. And he made a pipe from her, which miraculously played itself - it was enough to bring it to his lips. Her melodies penetrated into the very heart and made me sincerely tremble any soul.

Such is the story of the apricot pipe called the duduk in Armenia. About the sound of this instrument they say: "This is how the soul of an apricot tree sings."