Those western skies, blue and wild
Birds fly soaring high,
Fascinating those heights are,
Where freedom floats the clouds,
Where wings of joy are opened wide
And strings of hope all swirly,
Those swishing winds there, have something to whisper,
To the kite that want to fly free..
All by itself without any manja,
For now it knows it's a puppet in the hands of that kite flyer,
Standing on the roof top;
Flying the kite for thyself,
For thy satisfaction, without any consent of the kite...
Competing the race of kite flying,
Amidst an emerging terror for that kite to fade away,
Falsely claiming the kite to be free.
Up in the western skies,where freedom floats the clouds...
May be one day the kite will fly high,
Without any manja,no more in the hands of the kite flyer,
It will be free.