Singer in the Street

A voice carries its song,
On winds across the roofs.
A rising twisting melody -
In tongue that's quite new.

I cannot understand the words,
I'll never know what they mean.
But the sound, it paints its own portrait -
Most likely unique for me.

I see a hanging a garden,
Built of herbs and ferns.
It's suspended in a place beyond time,
Somewhere beneath the sea.

The see-sawing bending pitch,
Of a brand I never knew.
It's a lovely twining journey,
Made of plants that grow and move.

A fern it waves its branches,
Swaying through the waters.
A suspended show, it floats,
With the rising falling tone.

There's a singer in the street,
The sound wafts to the porch.
He carries the tune so gracefully,
Shows me a world he couldn't know.

It's a garden under sea.
And I think it's unique for me.
Carried by the sound,
Of a man that I don't know.