The Song of Country

The singers of this country are silent now.
Gone into the stars,
and the dust of this land.
The dreaming buried deep in the hearts of the survivors,
estranged from their country.
The song lies latent,
waiting for the people to return.
So too the ancient sprits,
of forest and stone,
wait.
They hear the country sing its own song,
in the rocks and streams.
It is wasted on the people who now inhabit the land.
Few have ears to listen.
Fewer still,
have the voice to sing.