Whistling Palms

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.

 

May 2006

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