In a land where the silence ruled,
the air was strangely still.
Songs there were forbid,
And branded as wrong.
Any echos muffled,
and any dreams were untold.
Yet beneath the hush, a girl kept safe,
From a whisper of a tune wrapped
in her grandmother’s old embrace.
A fragment of a long lost tune,
her nana’s voice, soft as the moon.
Every morning, every sunset
she recites the song, (a memory)
Soft and shy, in a whispered tone.
Every time she halts, thinks,
voice bare and unsure.
“It is banished”
“It is forbidden”
But the voices are silenced,
And she goes on:
Ooh la la, see those winds,
Winds that roam,
they drift me to those days that roam.
To days of laughter, days of song,
In a glistening light with hope, no wrong.
She sings of forbidden freedom, with fingers interlaced
“What’s society without free”
She says in the open meadows
To the crowd face.
And so there she stood,
so softly sung,
Only one voice broke through.
“So unorthodox, so unjust”
But her hopes were high,
and perhaps they would see,
a plain song of then, just a simple song of plee.
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