We hum the same tune of music
a form of love is what we build.
We dance like there’s no tomorrow
putting ourselves out of sorrow.
My greenest leaves touching yours,
Our branches binding us,
Our barks standing close,
Our roots quenching thirst.
Among the beauty of this hill,
a wondrous miracle is unseen.
Frail plants that seem to break,
pale flowers that seem so meek.
They won’t have to be, no more,
as long as our ritual goes on.
Dancing would never have to end
if we’d stand the deadliest storms.
Singing would go on to mend
resulting to new life forms.