Music

This is music that cannot die
With the turn of the seasons
So rooted that it smells of flowers
That can only grow here
Has rivers flowing through the year
Fed by rain that never stops for breath
The wind whispers, sighs and sings
The birds don't know what to do, join in
When all others tire, the kuyil keeps on
The crows build nests for both
The hills appear out of nowhere
With their tall trees searching for the sun
Through the mists that cannot decide
Whether to be smoke or cloud or hope
That cannot be kept away for long
Like laughter that laughs at itself
Knowing that only a little that time builds lasts
Such as this music that no time can mark.