Whistling palms, I wonder what
they whistle; I really know not.
A sweet poem, a ballad or two,
a convincing hoax or something true.
A vibrant tune or a tragic knell,
I wonder what they want to tell.
Whistling palms, I wonder why
they sound like a pleasant sigh.
A gentle bubble,a secret kiss,
a dreamy drizzle, a breezy hiss.
A naughty giggle or a wispy song,
I wonder why they whistle along.
Whistling palms, I wonder where
they gather all that beauty rare.
From quiet meadows or lively streams,
from love and life or cheery dreams,
from sandy shores or a waterfall,
I wonder where they get it all.
Whistling palms, I wonder when
they lapse into silence again.
At early dawn, at morning fine,
at cozy noons or evening time.
At starry hours or midnight deep,
I wonder when they go to sleep.
Whistling palms, I wonder how
they still sing to themselves just now.
Their jumping leaves, their naughty charm,
be it in deserts or a homely farm.
They whistle even if all is gone,
I wonder how they still go on.
Whistling palms, I wonder who
they call as they whistle anew.
Trees, or a damsel, or a little child,
man or animals from the wild.
God Himself or nobody as such,
I wonder whom they love so much.