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The wind whispers soft against the pines,
A hymn of hills where stars align.
I hear the echoes of this old, worn hand,
Pulling me back to my native land.
Where the river bends, and the wildflowers play,
Boys and girls ran barefoot in June's ballet.
The porch swing creaks, a lullaby's strand,
I feel at home in my native land.
The tractor's hum, the crow of the dawn,
Fields of gold that stretch and yawn.
Grandma's quilt, stitched pure by hand,
Tells the stories of my native land.
Barbed wire fences and rusty gates,
Old dirt roads where freedom waits.
Dust on my boots, I understand,
This is the heart of my native land.
The smell of rain on a thirsty plain,
Laughter erupts from the front porch game.
It's not the riches, the gold, or the stand,
It's the love we build in the native land.
The wind whispers soft against the pines,
A hymn of hills where stars align.
I hear the echoes of this old, worn hand,
Pulling me back to my native land.
Where the river bends, and the wildflowers play,
Boys and girls ran barefoot in June's ballet.
The porch swing creaks, a lullaby's strand,
I feel at home in my native land.
The tractor's hum, the crow of the dawn,
Fields of gold that stretch and yawn.
Grandma's quilt, stitched pure by hand,
Tells the stories of my native land.
Barbed wire fences and rusty gates,
Old dirt roads where freedom waits.
Dust on my boots, I understand,
This is the heart of my native land.
The smell of rain on a thirsty plain,
Laughter erupts from the front porch game.
It's not the riches, the gold, or the stand,
It's the love we build in the native land.
- Category
- BALLET BOOTS
- Tags
- Music, new, songs
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