Who played the music?

Who played the flute,
the music that came from a cosmos
the soul of which doesn’t wriggle as ours,
the music in which is mirrored beauty -
the light of that alien world.

Who played the flute,
though for a few seconds,
reflecting the serene face of that universe
which, alas, cannot be ours
for ours is suffering and sweating too much
loving, laughing and crying too much.

Who played the flute,
singing the glory of that eternity;
that ever dreaming eternity
unlike our ever despairing eternity.

Or am I mistaken,
Can I rejoice?
Is there any chance that the music I heard now,
the flute I listened to for these fleeting moments,
chimes not the soul of a different cosmos
but mine own, ours own?