Songs of the island

 They say there's this island,

to the south of Andamans,

further away from 

the territorial waters of India, 

beyond the jurisdiction 

of civilization, 

as we know it. 

An island very few know exists, 

fewer still are known to have found their way to it. 

The people there,

they say, 

silence throbs. 

They believe it's only a matter of who can hear it. 

Those in love, do. 

And to their peril, 

for it can get maddening sometimes! 

And they say you can hear the Earth's gentle moan, 

just after a rainshower, 

and the song of the Universe;

that incessant humming, 

late at night, 

often just before dawn. 

And in the arms of the one you love, 

you can hear your heart beating in unison, 

with another, 

All, sounds only lovers can hear. 

And so they don't have songs there, 

When Spring arrives, 

or fall gives way to winters, 

or when the harvest is ready, 

they listen. 

In silent reverence. 

The songs of birds, 

The sound of the earth whirring on its axis, 

The song of the rainclouds, 

The thunder of waves crashing against the shore. 

The rapid beating 

of the human heart, 

on sleepless nights. 

The cooing of babies, clinging to their mothers' bosoms. 

And the songs lovers silently sing in their dreams. 

And they say every baby 

on that island

is born knowing

all these songs, 

but they never sing them. 

For songs, 

sacred as they are,

are meant only for the sacred sanctury of dreams.