Right over that hill is a place with secrets.
The sky holds the memories of a forgotten place,
The meadowlark calls out for its mate,
And the field beckons you to crawl across
Its rough terrain.

Long ago, the sky was the song.
It played its silent music with ease,
Never ceasing to energize those who seek it.
The shooting star falls every night,
Being seen by us, by the caravan, and by the breeze.

The floating meadowlark soars through the brush,
Calling through the weeds, searching for its other half.
While you may care to seek and follow,
Don't ruin your shoeshine for something so simple,
Yet so difficult to maintain.

The real beauty is the field,
Begging you to come explore its natural paradise.
The brush blows in the midnight wind,
Whispering to you the past of the Earth;
You just have to keep an open ear.