As if the rustle could exist,
without caress from the wind,
After sun drying sheets
Of the trunk spurted bristle.
- Now of sundry pieces;
In wait for the crunch.

Do you not see,
this orchastrated play
Of natural music?
A compose of the Rab.

When the skies' over-worked
They sweat. Does the tip, tapping
Of drip, not tingle tantalising sing
To splashing boyant spring
In puddles ringing undisturbed?
A win to the water's whistle.

Do you not see,
this orchastrated play
Of natural music?
A compose of the Rab.

They say it roars.
Turning crisp the nest of,
Giving life. Fire, spry, to rasp
An aggitated carn desire.
The voiceless, heard the loudest.
- Impact of its being.

Do you not see,
this orchastrated play
Of natural music?
A compose of the Rab.

Hardest still. So much so,
You wouldn't know they move.
The till, is then and now and then
The how is when, when the whens,
Hours spent. Sorting lent magnitude
Of smooth mineral moves.
How it behooves.

Do you not see,
this orchastrated play
Of natural music?
A compose of the Rab.



© Haiych