In a selfish endeavour to cool my soul,
Chose the hills as stress burster parols.
As I ascended I took brief pause,
To adjust my ears to the silence across.
Have you heard those buzzing sound,
Though not of sea or man made or found.
I knew them since I am born to Bourne,
Summer in hills under the cottony sojourne.
Those are the ferns leaves stand tall to stalk,
The miseries of man in he womb of rock.
I saw your yellow bird behind its leaves,
It tried until it whistles to the breeze
I saw a fuzzy hut with a turnished red roof
Small dresses cover the fences barring grooves
I know they care not the dust or smoke
But bear the byproducts of weekenders joke
Do you think I can live here for ages to come
With the same vibes and aura that numb
If love loses the spirit before you die
What you are living is nothing but lie.
