Singing, singing
The song,
The song of Nagaland
With bamboo pipes and baskets
Going to harvest and gather?
The horns blowing
And the dances starting
With big-big drums
And beatings
In the midst of hills, vales and dales,
Forests and woodlands,
Ravines and plateaus,
Huts and villages
Dotting the terrains.
Music so ethnic, so indigenous,
Tribal, aboriginal,
Primitive and pristine and folk
Taking to a panorama of the wild,
Forested and hilly tracts and domains
So wild and so craggy,
So rocky and high
Nagaland calling
With the music of the woods,
The music of the hills,
Rivers and mountains.