There is whistling
There is drumming
Who is humming in between?
A drum on the tin roofs
A drum on the grass
A dropp on my forehead
A dropp on my eyelid
OOOOOOOoooooooo
The hooting wind is the fluting wind,
They sway `left and they sway right
Trees, those trees
Swaying left and swaying right
Beating rhythm on everything
Thaka thimi thakathimi thakthimi thithom
Thithithom thaka thithithom
They burst singing.
The sound and the music of another world, another culture lingers in my mind.. I like this very much. Glad to read you again, my poet friend. Fond regards, Sandra
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Between the in breath and the out breath is the place between - where all is bliss. Perhaps this is the same place that hums between the whistling and the drumming. This is a most attractive poem where the words become the music, the drumming becomes the swaying and the trees speak. Your title is perfect and your final stanza sizzles. Love, Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥