In the midst of the mountains,
There is a community.
Where breeze blows,
And peace spreads.
The whistling of birds,
The Sound of raindrop on the leaves,
The humming of women,
As they sit in a circle.
She speaks of her youth,
She speaks of her family,
She speaks of her lost innocence,
She speaks of the past.
As the needle pierces the thread,
The knot is effortlessly perfect,
The smile on her face,
As she works on her basket.
The old ones advise the young,
As they regret their wasted youth.
The hums breaks the silence,
Together they weave perfectly.
Basket a symbol of our culture,
The essence of secret,
The wrap of the hidden,
The box of the surprise.
It is well woven,
Starting from the bottom,
Wide upward but small at the top,
It is alluring to see inside as our culture.
The smallest country,
With a thousand hills,
But once you open the basket,
You dive in too deep to leave.