15 February 2013
Around the campfire you congregate, Myths and folklore you're here to celebrate,
The fire crackles it's embers fly, Up to the stars in the darkness of the sky,
Four great logs meet in the centre, Feeding the fires warm orangey temper,
Dressed up in your native costume, The incense of sandalwood releases it's musky perfume,
Native instruments begin to play, It's sound travels the mountains and the echoes back communicate,
They begin to dance and sing, The natives feel the joy it brings,
Face paints mark their skin, A reminder of their lost tribesmen to whom they are akin,
The sounds that are created by their voices, Are deep and meaningful, their soul rejoices,
Natures tune joins in before long, The grassy breeze and the eagles song,
Panpipes, flutes, acoustic guitars, The sound compliments the earth, the sky, the stars,
A ritual that's performed every single night, A sound to my ears that creates pure musical delight.
Natives. • Opuss № I