Monday, 12 August 2013


Melodies of millionaires, minions, monks & milking maids,
Everyone has their tune, no matter of what they´re made,
Whispering tunes of waves, winds & willful, woeful whales,
On far exotic breezes, blowing through grizzled seamen´s sails.

Chanting of old Druids, hooded warlocks, chaste & pious nuns,
Humming to strings strummed or the distant dundered drums,
Upon knees, beneath steeples, voicing away of old black sins,                            
Of cricket legs, dry leaves, cracked pods & shivering silver fins.             

On the dusty air, growling, howling & of the big beast purring,
Desert sands singing, sea´s whispering, nature´s melodic stirring,
Green frogs & toads on the lily pads, all croaking to their moon,            
Cacophony of feathered birds, each singing their own plumed tune.

Melodies of waters all, of earth, moon & lapping us in the womb,         
Of long-ago lullaby that haunts us from birth, until our musty tomb,
Softly following us in our heads, hearts & gently in our dying souls,
And without all life´s little melodies, we are only the half of whole.


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