Over the meadows, in the mountain tops,
The wind blows, hisses, and never stops.
The same kind of silence, in this room I find,
Of other abilities left far behind.
I sit here and compose,
Of prickly thorns, and a lovely rose.
Have you seen an ‘Awla’ tree?
The fruit is the purest form of Vitamin C,
And under which the deer roam free.
If you have, you’ll feel the hiss,
Otherwise there’s not much amiss,
‘Cause this hissing silence will always be.