Dylan, Me and Robin Hood

On the Friendship road
We travel writing a note
Dylan, me and Robin Hood,
Roasted barley for our food,
Dylan twangs his six-string guitar,
It sounds much like a sitar,
Me the bad little boy
Fumbles with a baby toy,
Robin waves his mighty bow
So to make the Chinese bow,

Thousand eyes watch us parade,
Though we aren’t on a visit so state,
There is something in these eyes
That we could not see,
Something in the air
That we could not feel,
A melancholic tune from a distuned Danyan*,
A butter lamp left half burnt
A fragile mind shaken out of tune,

A virgin land trembled by the marching boots,
A civilization being ripped apart.

* Tibetan lute

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