Back to the country,
To the careful hills,
Gentle ponds and weeping clouds.
Where trees tell tales,
Saturated with knowledge and wisdom,
And the lilies grow bright there too.
Back where time has little consequence,
Where hours melt and obliterate,
Where it does not matter.
There is a stream,
With brush skirting the banks,
So tall it stoops over,
And drinks from the cool water.
There are birds that chant,
Rhythmically, beautifully,
Beckoning to unfound lovers,
A dream in motion and song.
There, in the country,
Great Gods rumble below the earth,
Rearranging the mighty furniture of the landscape,
So carefully that it is hard to notice,
Yet so dramatically that only a fool could not tell.
In this country, one may find peace,
Through the washing of the water,
The knowledge of the trees,
And the love of the birds,
Tender yet unrelenting.