(Verse 1) Morning breaks in colours I can’t name, Light spills softly on the river’s face. Every wing and whistle in the canopy above Is a map of memory, a language of the place. (Pre-Chorus) Hear the rhythm of the treetops, Hear the echo in the hills— Every feather holds a story, Every song a world that lives. (Chorus) Oh, the birds sing the soul of the land, From desert winds to the ocean sand. In every valley, in every wide open space, The sound of a place is the song that they make. Oh, the birds call home— And their home calls through me. (Verse 2) Sunset paints the sky in ember gold, Shadows stretch where the river rolls. A lone call rises, then the others answer back— A woven choir stitching dusk into the world. (Pre-Chorus) Hear the footsteps of the seasons In the chorus as it swells— Tiny beating hearts in cadence, Ancient as the temple bells. (Chorus) Oh, the birds sing the soul of the land, From desert winds to the ocean sand. In every valley, in every wide open space, The sound of a place is the song that they make. Oh, the birds call home— And their home calls through me. (Bridge) Across the mountains, plains, and shores, The melody forever soars. No matter where my footsteps roam, The birdsong always feels like home. (Final Chorus) Oh, the birds sing the soul of the land, Guiding hearts like an open hand. In every country, in every sacred space, The sound of a place is the song that they make. Oh, the birds call home— And their home calls through me.
