Mounted on the wings of nostalgia

Carried to the Udara tree where we used to sit

And sing at the top of our voices.

Begging the juicy yellow fruits to fall on their own.

That was the only way we could claim them as our’s.

Happy times they were.

Innocent and devoid of guiles, we were.

And you know, sometimes we do sing the fruits down.

Sweet tangy rewards, a worthy bounty claimed,

For innocent little voices raised in Song.