Content in a cornered part of the far reaches of France
Where the gypsies naked prance and hastily dance
Stars shine down on the groups of merry peasants
Who talk love tell and pluck soon to be dead pheasants

Here the children tell of monsters mixed to death with lore
Milk pours from every cow and food grows more and more
Rocks forget themselves underneath a bubbling river bed
No one cries for here no one is beckoned to the river of the dead

Illusions fortify their eyes and their beating red hearts
Cars are parked for the horses as their only means to start
On adventures to moon lit mortuaries candle lit dinner parties
Dancing with ghosts sporting their finest being quite flirty

I envisioned myself beneath the elm tree reading and writing
Listening to no sounds of husband and wife fighting
Some may call this place eden heaven or even impossible
But I see it as a world hopeful to soon be chronicled