Jan 19
Through the valleys, sparkling rivers flow, soothing us with lively sounds and renewing the forest alleys.
The wind blows, yellow ink paints fertile soils, and above, the birds call, dance in the rain, chirp on the branches, bathe in the air in the oils of the Sun showers.
The trees are tall towers, and the stones below lie wrapped in silver foil. They envelop the depths of our earth's core,
remembering the past and preserving our home for centuries blessed to come. Our hearts play the strings of life. May our eyes be emptied of prejudice and despair.
I bow to thee - the bestower of beauty to all.
You are the artist on the black paper, while the blue mountains are the throne of your kingdom. You look over the vicinities of life as you guide us walking in the chaos. Your colors fill the blank paper with the motley rays of spring, and the drawing is always there.
The wind blows, yellow ink paints fertile soils, and above, the birds call, dance in the rain, chirp on the branches, bathe in the air in the oils of the Sun showers.
The trees are tall towers, and the stones below lie wrapped in silver foil. They envelop the depths of our earth's core,
remembering the past and preserving our home for centuries blessed to come. Our hearts play the strings of life. May our eyes be emptied of prejudice and despair.
I bow to thee - the bestower of beauty to all.
You are the artist on the black paper, while the blue mountains are the throne of your kingdom. You look over the vicinities of life as you guide us walking in the chaos. Your colors fill the blank paper with the motley rays of spring, and the drawing is always there.
