Violin, viola, vocals.

My songs, they are like water weeds.
Born in one place, but from it freed.
They have no roots, just flowers and leaves,
That dance like sunbeams on the waves.
Dwelling nowhere, hoarding nothing,
Unforeseen guests, ever roving.
When the river swells
With the monsoon torrent,
And bursts its banks with its current.
My water weeds, mad with need,
Follow the floods along strange roads
From land to land
Float into a myriad hands.
- Rabindranath Tagore