There are songs that come from the blue-eyed grass,
From the dust of a thousand country roads,
From footprints in white sand.
Aboriginals call it 'songlines'-
Mapping steps through the silk route of time.

If only, we could pause,
And hear the songs around.
The one on our shoulder,
The one on autumn's last leaf.
On monsoon's first rain drop—
Riding on a butterfly's turmeric wings.

There are songs which are dying,
Because no one hears them anymore.
Because there is no space for blue-eyed grass,
And none for country roads.