Only in the best season,
The forgotten gateway opens up a field of bell flowers in two colours,
White, the colour of light and love, as pure as it sounds like,
Golden, alike the majestic rising sun in the early morning,
They never cross the road, but are seperated by it, I wonder why...
Perhaps it is the harmony, created by the untouched nature,
Or is it the order they chose to grow in, while the warm weather can be felt through body and soul, through emotions and the mind,
Only the chirping of the locusts, hopping from bell to bellflower,
The road is frankly short, leading to a near forest, yet the sensation, brought to the optic nerve and to the nose through the sweet smell,
This is what makes it something which cannot be truly conveyed in words, because, the untouched nature is art in its very own way,
Until the greed of humanity destroys its gift with their toxity,
What remains are the memories of harmony and grace.