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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