You and I
were an amalgamate of
two forms of hatred,
sixty shouted swear words,
seven hundred kilometers of happiness, and
one thousand reasons to wake up,
smiling.

Don't mistake me for some mere mortal man, despite the fact that is what I am.

These numbers all add up, and by "add up" I don't mean "make sense". I mean compile, compound, and condense.

You are every number you are assigned. Your weight, and your height, but you're still one of a kind.

Perhaps the start became askew, as now you have to appease a certain view.

Because maybe between, "I'm trying to lend a hand," and "I'm trying to understand,"

WE found "I'm trying to define." "To outline."

To segregate, to separate.

Maybe it's time we left all these numbers behind, out of mind, and then we'll start to find;

Infinity.

By a symbol it comfortably dwells, and it is free of numeric prison cells.

I will not be shackled in digits, but I cannot be the only one to fix it.

I will have trinities on my breast, and infinitys on my liver will rest.

I will have hearts stained on my kidneys,
And upon my stomach I will florescent trees.

And as all immaculate things must fall,
Down will come symbols, purity and all.

Our descendants will come to our same flawed fate, and symbols will cages create.

Children's children's children will awake, and words they will commemorate.

They will see through to when the pen was invigorated. When words were made and encased and plated.

They will see that though words can strip and tear and disintegrate, words will never fail to free and weld and amalgamate.

So do not mistake me for some mere mortal man despite the fact that is what I am.

Because as time has past on and numbers become ballast,
I will never forget words, the first and the last.

A view of you only these eyes can see,
As lungs do fill and fall, to give and bring,
New life to me, as dreams may hear me sing.
But just for now, enamoured hope runs free.
Two destined paths amalgamate as we,
Plunge into bold, foolhardy happenings.
Le grande cascade. Vintgar. A constant spring,
That never stops sprouting abundantly.

But hurried mornings twist and bend my heart,
To expedite the time I must derail
My consciousness and fall back to the start,
To dreams of distance lost so I can't fail.
To find my thrill, admiring breath, like art;
The rise and fall of life and it's details.

it starts with the masses.
heaped upon one another in grey, wet bodies
and from the amalgamate of ruined life
rise the silver, brilliant winged
filthy sog and bones sludging off
their unmatched, magnificent light

like shooting stars they ascend
to the enormous white clouds
garnered with the span of their great feathers
wearing masks of divine neutrality

and we

in the masses

stare so longingly at those divine heavens

some of us with patchworks of feather and bones- hopeless things we can barely call wings-
tattered and ripped but still determined, like the writhing of a starved beggar-
flatter unsteadily up
groping desperately at the clouds
with bony, aching fingers
only to meet
solemn and unforgiving
stone

and pushed
back,
tossed

back

into the masses


and like comets, they
rain down

                                          the fall of the inadequate




crashing into the hideously wet festering:
into the decay of the mundane and ordinary


and thus the procession commences
great silver wings nailed with dignified
steel stakes
graceful hands and feet
mangled unforgivingly with hammer and iron

we, the inadequate and mundane and ordinary
we wail, we scream we cry
for the destiny of divinity
in anguish and desperation, our cacophonic chorus
becomes
the great symphony
of the decaying and dying
bathed grotesquely in the light of the holy
we continue to beg and shout and call

the opera of roaring voices:


                                     the crucifixion of the prodigy



as we continue to decay
the weathering, spreading
and becoming, morphing into something no longer
recognizable


slowly we die off
each of us, clawing and howling to our very last moments
in succumbing to mortality
the symphony, melting in its desperate, rabid energy
until the echo of the last
haunted cry-

silences


hence closes

the fall of the inadequate

the crucifixion of the prodigy

and


                           the decay of the mundane and ordinary

I have an imagination plugging into my vision
I see wind and amalgamate with it's intentions

Moves meant to carry seeds and make you feel the rain
Providing space for calm and storm both to be my name

A response is what he needed
To rest serenely
Strong-minded as if
He called her constantly,
Texted ceaselessly
Formulated a poem
To portray what he discerned
Desiring to identify her
"Tell me your name so I can
thank you how you deserve."

Her sight wandered all over her dorm
Was she really thinking of
Unveiling her storm?

Her lips arched straight-up
"There's nothing to lose"
Is what she naively thought

Her name now appearing on screen
Along with her heart, mind and peace
She knew it was the end
To a never being fairy dream

"A friend would of been great back then"
Who said there's nothing
We can do nowadays
Now her secret is out
Million questions pending

He knows her name now
The shield is now below her vow
He seemed thrilled at first
He's no longer captivated
He didn't like what it displayed

"Thank you for the poem"
That's all he said

No more texts were sent
He used to reply without saying mer
Now he's no longer immediate

Nodding he lowered his sight
Deciding not to move forward
But to leave all this situation burried
Along with her light

He ached to find someone who cared
She was available at all hours of the day
What made him so blind
What prevented him to realize
She was someone to confide

She didn't shed a single tear
She knew there were risks
Not a propitious ending
But at least she now knows
He wasn't worth it

Outlasting her thoughts
She pursued a goodbye
Their houses not being faraway
She requested a meeting to amalgamate

Unbiased to encounter his neighbor
He elected to party out
She waited for him all night
Counted every single star
Drank her pain aside
Until her stinging expired

She can now move on
She is now determined
She now knows affection isn't eternal
Closing her eyes she guaranteed
Never letting her feelings
Slip off her finger tips
She's not allowing anybody into
Her now **coldhearted spirit

Oh, the reality.
How different it looks from Clogdance.
Bereft of the muck and the mush,
It looked overdone and suffocating.

Gilbert thought Clogdance was too much.
Well, Gilbert never wore glasses.
And, Gilbert had an amalgamate of yellow and blue,
Iris.

He’d always dreamt of the dullness.
And, the blindingly searing colours,
Of Clogdance were just not the right cup for him.

So, Gilbert walked fast.
And, Gilbert walked far.
To find the bubble to break out of and move into the alternate,
Reality.

Gilbert had wanted just the normalcy.
A right dosage to appreciate his otherwise
Worthless an existence, too languid.
Bright, and pricking and smothering.
The colours forever, was leered into his skin,
In the days of Clogdance,
Gilbert believed.

Well, Gilbert walked faster.
And Gilbert walked farther.
Hoping to live the numbness to retreat to the searing bright,
Gilbert did never stop,
nor turn around and look back.

Gilbert walked for forty years,
Through the white shores of Paradiso
To Teal Whale like water Wholes,
Carved into and flowing in shapes.

Gilbert shut his eyes.
Gilbert thought he’d be blinded soon.
Gilbert disagreed with all the logic and science
That Clogdance had to sacrifice.
Sloppy Gods and their hermitage taste buds too bland,
And corroded off,
Off the ability to taste any,
Had simply maddened Gilbert.

Gilbert wanted to live.
Gilbert wanted to live without the charity of the old Gods.
Gilbert wanted to, just Live.
Gilbert walked fatigued,
But, steady and stable.
Gilbert’s brown Wolf-like curls were silver streaks
in the darkness too slow.
Gilbert stopped.
Gilbert inhaled.
Gilbert sat down,
And, then he slept for an year-long.

He woke up in the Sahara, on Earth.

All around, Gilbert saw the streaks reflecting his youth.
Of an era past,
in the deal for greed.
Or a plain, pleasant contentment,
Gilbert thought.
The brown jet.
Unending dunes of a beautiful radiant Brown,
Gilbert found no green, or white,lest his own grey discoloured strands now.

Brown and brown,
and brown and dull,
Gilbert widened his eyes at the thought.
Gilbert gasped and groaned
in his new-found Mortality.

Gilbert panted and heaved aloud,
For water, warmth and comfort.
For a little colour to fuel
his faint ‘browned’ life.

Gilbert crawled in the dunes of Sahara for two years.
None an oasis did he find,
So forth,
He died.

To be buried deeper into the merciless dust.
Of a heavier Legacy.

Brown with the Brown,
Gilbert died Unknown.

And, young.
And, dull.
And, a mortal.

And, none knew
What ate Gilbert Clogdance.

The singular marble of energy, infinitely dense,
Elected to expand towards inexistent directions,
Creating space to unfold volatile carpets of navy
Blue time, on which to develop endless potential.

Light ignites for particles to amalgamate reflections,
Evolving energy into matter, for atoms to compose
Spinning molecules assembled, filled with purpose
Pulled by force, of gravity building fusing stars.

Refractory minerals travel unnoticed and afar,
Leaving home to shower dust on spheres aligned
Orbiting a sun, where ingredients perfectly meld
Hosting falling comets and chondrites, water in disguise.

Suddenly life.

As the marble now exceeds measurement possibilities,
Perpetrating its expansion, outdoing light speed limits,
It decides to visit itself and its creations through the eyes
Of a species with a mind. Consciousness rise.

From a remote planet lost in its meanders,
Inhabitants of Earth slowly challenge their perceptions,
Reflecting shadows of primitive light to comprehend
Their role in the marble game encompassing all.

Suddenly the Universe.

As the Sun has its place
In the clear, halcyon sky
Your mind resides here
Please don't resist to comply
Intercept each divagated thought
Interconnect with my waves
Vibe with my presentiment
Upon each other, we're slaves
"Hooked" on each other's hooks
As our conscious rocks and cradles
Sharing minds as we flutter
Animated fantasies, but no fables
I think the way you think
You coast adjacent to my vibe
Our mental surrounds each other's
Mine and yours, a dear circumscribe
We entwine as a tightly woven braid
Entangled upon a common bond
We savor of our intuitive thoughts
Your every move, I'm surely fond
Enriched with pleasurable closure
In summer's embrace, we wallow
In this psychological playground
My angel, your position is hallow
We're two minds that amalgamate
Gratified with not one discrepancy
Only our mutual brains keep subtle
A deep, infrangible, sweet telepathy..

© Michael P. Smith

i myself
an amalgamate
of little words
long pauses
you are without brackets
we multiply, divide
but never add

One day I will raise
One day I will clear the shadowed fog which haunts my dreams
I will evaporate the cloud which sits on my frail arms
One day I will rip the paper which chooses who I am
I will slice through the deceiving Ivory sheet, I'll make sure it disintegrates into the ash it came from
One day I will break the steel chains which strangle my hope. I will bite through the objectionable links which encase me as their profound prisoner.
One day I will be strong. I will be able to drag the burdens and memories to its final destination. I will not cower when I see the odius foul luggage stand tall and scream. I will not amalgamate  with delirium as I hear Past's cries. I will persevere.
One day I will fix myself. I will be able to stich the lacerations time has caused, I will be able to build the disintegrating building my mind has become. I will be able to paint my soul its luminous halo again.
And maybe one day I will raise. I will raise from the fog, the paper, the chains, the past and the pain. I will raise with purity and maybe...maybe if I'm lucky...I will be graced with the simple gift of a smile.
*For now I can hope...
About what I will do...
One day

Don't walk on my side of the street,
we do not want to see your feet
pounding down on this sidewalk.
We feel no need to  mix or talk.

Here are the rules that we send,
if you're not like us you're no friend.
So take this threat and do not stray
or with your life you'll surely pay.

We want our race line to stay pure,
we're happier when you are fewer.
So die you ******* do us a favour
for we don't like your cultures flavour.

These thoughts have always been in mind,
our message passed from kind to kind.
Children taught how they should hate
and never enter in debate.

We're happy just the way we are,
with bullets from a drive bye car.
Machine guns we can lock and load
Dead bodies lying in the road.

Why would we ever want alteration
and mix with lesser denomination.
We keep the streets clean as we sieve
sooner than integrate we would grieve.

It makes good sense that's what we learn
and then pass on when it's our turn.
Our children we do educate
and their forbears they emulate.

And on and on and on and on
and through this course so many gone.
They die because they cross a road,
or move out from their postal code.

We **** because he looks at her,
they die 'cause they decide to care.
Rather to **** them than to alter
we choose instead to maim and slaughter.

This is it, it's what you do
to those who do not look like you.
We must step forward and be brave,
and if they mix they choose the grave.

We are there to teach and show
for without this no-one would know.
Cultures they would amalgamate
then we would have no cause to hate.

The rusted mailbox
creaks as it’s pried open,
dented door dislodging.
Two yellow balloons
tethered to its post
and bobbing in the wind,
stark color against a slate sky.
The bomp bomp of the balloons barely
heard over the wind’s whistles.

Empty inside.
It’s Sunday
after all. Too easy for you to forget
the day when days
amalgamate into one
long moment. Stuck in an
everlasting condition,
waiting for the day
when your mind
at last
is quiet.

A quiet
that comes when your hands
are busy. Too
distracted by tasks to
dwell on thoughts.

bleak darkness and its measure:
squandering the light
no definitions
no spectral haze
no inhibitions
its onerous labor is one
    with me.

live life at the edge of the fall.
holding a hand
fallibly.
live alone, love alone —
  these things pulse with strength
      in singleness, even the glances
of prying neighbors are sequestered
   reduced to sealed shut, hermetic,
      no sight or hindsight.

i'll run to where the sunlight is
   and wish for the moon, slumber
like a dead log adrift in the current.
buying myself love and selling its pleasures to defunct markets.
   trying to repair what is beyond salvation,
   trying to amalgamate what is perpetually
        scarred, sundered.

clangorous *** of metal, herding jeep
    and riotous chariots; mad men fill
the lines waiting for encumbrance,
     bardic in the streets of Marilao
hungry for something:
   give me a blank piece of paper
and i will try to reinvent the world
     with impunity and lostness.
the world gives back such awry stare
    and all imperative darkness reigns
supreme, mine are all emergencies
   as shadows are succored not,
retained in their caliginous thrones.

living alone
    yet not so much alone.
the dog outside does not bark anymore.
  the well-placed gnome of stone outside
      stares stonily across the thick space.
the nosy neighbor does not meddle
  through the rusted ocher grills.
the old moon wanes outside
   as the lift of light sways to where
there are no disappearances.
somewhere in the metropolitan there
   is a derby of fools and all mirth;
i wish myself there and curse my presence
      right then.
work does not fill me anymore,
    money does me no good. my soul
bangs the walls and slams the doors
     it threatens to leave without auguries,
and demands a new sense of necessity.

tonight, i will go out, drink at a local pub
   and crawl towards the ajar door of
  my father's car. smoke will caterwaul
the pressing scenes of the vicinities
    crumbling at the tremor of clocks;
i will open my dresser and discover
   all books dissipated, some naked
  in relished pages, others abeyant.

the curtain can fall later,
and the night too, falter evenly
widely spread across the sky.
    — all is broken.

Dear Unity,  be proud of the work you've done.
Working day and night, leaving complaints to none.
With your calm blue aura, full of peace.
People from sadness and separation, you release.

Dear Unity, extending the branches of your unifying tree,
Watching over like a flock of birds flying free.
Amalgamate the opposing forces of destruction and war,
Spare them from the unnecessary deaths and gore.

Dear Unity, reunite us with our long lost friends,
So there will be happiness and laughter as broken hearts mend.
Clear the miserable loneliness haunting around,
And stop at no cost until the cure is found.

Dear Unity, oh unity, our guardian angel in disguise,
Getting rid of the hatred, betrayal and the emotion; despise.
Dear Unity, you are all for one and one for all,
Thank you for being there every time we fall.

Come, O' child of the West!
As the towers fall and the abbeys rust
And the rising glass facades of dust
Preach you lies and folly thus!

In these fronds of existentia
And those shackled souls scared to devise
Diviner's fall their way to sight

For an oculus of clear sky
shivers in green
For utopia never before seen

God, the amalgamate of rock
And every bullet fired lost
Some section of jewel created in you
And gave the ending her fair dues

The safest tree that grows
In empty valley and fair meadow
With dying breath of barren roots she screams
In sunder surrendered everything

As the child, clutched tightly to her breast
The waves of time, in pounding crests
A volley, a riot of thunderous fear
And whisper poison into thine ear

Do not despair, tis not your fate
For those with gold kept still to trade
In Perpetua your colonnade
Shall forever rest that fair maid.

My voice is louder than the amphetamines that pump through my system,
Like a myriad of violins,
preaching on a soapbox.
Surrounded by self-proclaimed writers,
who control their mindless devotions with their pen to paper.
They believe,
not only in themselves,
but in the system.
They don't challenge what's really happening,
and is instead,
hazed by propaganda.

I am told that confidence is one thing,
and being self sufficient is another.
But i think they amalgamate to each other,
like the rivers do in my head.

We wonder,
what if the dust on the moon really is acidic?
what do we do then?

I give my money to my hierarchy above,
and I challenge what really is happening.

unfortunately for you,
this poem is based off of real events, places and people
for you: D.H.
to look at your name makes me sick
physically incapable of breathing
keeping down the rise of poison in my lungs
infiltrating my veins,
slowly cracking my bones
this poison is a gnarly concoction of anger and guilt and hurt
for you, D.H.
of which all of this should not be wasted on
but alas, such is love right?
love is willingly letting someone wait for you as you walk the streets of this city with another
that’s love, right?
love is letting someone waste away, miss meals, sleep for days and never have a dry face
that’s love, right?
love is sitting not a month later with someone else on a streetcar while I watch you hold her hand
that’s love, right?
if that is love, then so must be
promising not to hurt someone
telling someone to stay when all they want to do is go
cooking too many meals for that person
too many salty meals
I never told you this, D.H.,
but your first potatoes were too salty
as was that coq au vin
and so are you:
too salty
not enough sweet
I have never wished ill will on anyone
but I wish that for you
I hope one day that you see someone that you believed you might have loved,
if given the chance,
walking down the street with someone else
not a month later
and your heart stops
and you try to breathe
and calm
but your left side goes numb,
as did mine,
and your heart hurts,
as did mine,
and I hope that you fall over
and you gasp and you clutch the Queen West sidewalk
and you look for help
but no one rescues you
no one saves you
because if you don’t use your heart,
why should you have one?
if you don’t love anyone, why should you still have that what makes you love?
that what skips two extra beats when you run a hand down a spine?
that what aches when that person is gone?
that what stops when it’s over?
if all you do is keep and gather and amalgamate secrets that others give you
willingly
and all you do is store them on your hard drive to save
but you give nothing in return,
why should you have a heart?
truthfully, it makes me sad to see you without one
falling from one person into the next,
slipping slowly but gaining nothing but secrets
and giving nothing
but I give e v e r y t h i n g, D.H.
I never forget what is said to me
I never forget what your touch feels like
I never make promises I can’t keep
but evidently:
you can
and if that makes you happy
(which is ******)
and if you can continue on as such
(which is ******)
and if you can live with yourself
(which is ******)
then good riddance
because although an earthquake erupted in my chest
and black crows swarmed into my eyes
and I tasted nothing but too much salt
and I almost fell back into the arms of my former pitied self
I remembered something:
one was that your tattoos are stupid,
two was that I missed your cat more than I missed you
but three was this:
I may love too easily,
but at least I love
at least I let my heart shine through my chest and beam
at least I let it be ripped out again only to build the muscle around it stronger
at least I can say I have loved and I am loved
maybe not by you, Dylan Hopman,
but you missed out on this insanely resilient
and endlessly beating heart of mine.

A demure river converges with the sea and turns into a scepter of intrepidity.

My eyes try to follow every ebbing wave into the strands of illimitable resurrection.

The wind carries the clouds toward a ruffled terrain and turns sunshine into rain.

Reckless movements seem to convey the act of solicitous tenderness.

A forsaken lighthouse on a deserted island tries to revitalize the ship that never arrived.

The enlightenment seems to brighten up its separateness

From the world of decreasing congeniality.

The resplendent pasture seems to absorb the colour from the verdant trees.

Scintillating dewdrops variegate the cusp of the grass like an exhilarating crown.

The inaudible murmur of pastoral life wraps the passing day in its tranquil impeccability.

The lucent stars seem to burn the vacuousness of night with its satiating fire.

Nature seems to have become the harbinger of my lost words

That long ago manifested my dauntless but wretched love for you.

The uncanny omnipresence of the unbarred memories seems to amalgamate

The unreciprocated past and the abeyant present.

Stirring thoughts in an invigorating mind seem to lose its scrupulousness

In the midst of these harrowing days of ruthless truthfulness.

The metaphors of nature seem to have juxtaposed with the feeble pieces of my fragile heart.

The ineradicable retrospection of moon-sharing nights seem to have emerged

From the irreducible darkness around me.

The twinkling shadows of inseparable hearts seem to converge

Into the enticing hills of the unlit valley.

The honest moon seems to have lost its sagaciousness in the night of relinquished lovers.

The closing day is enamored of the festering odor of onrushing annihilation.

The transcendental road to salvation merges into the heath of transcalent despondency.

A cadence of breaths stings my lungs,
my tissues contracting in a rhythmic pattern,
oh how it stung.
Turgid veins swelling with blood, it bites like battery acid.
Tepid vision is clouded, and I'm placing a bid, one still tacit.
Bathing in the moonlight, I have sworn to remain focused,
the stale breath of the night drawing me nearer.
Contentions bind us together, it attracts me, I almost fear her.
Atop the mountains I have had a revelation.
Unlike before, synapses fail to send reason for any stipulations.
A feverishly beating heart, once stagnant, is evolving passion again,
becoming ostentatious.
This pen and ink portend my timidity, acting out for me,
love has again become contagious.
I can feel it in my brittle bones, a tingling spine indicates
I must offer to amalgamate.
Though ardent, I linger in ambivalence, as to when my heart will proceed,
I can only speculate.

It is a strain
That wonderful darkness that pulls.
Like the roots of weeds
It grabs by the knees and holds.
Causing deep thoughts to cluster;
Amalgamate and fuse.
Leaving only frustrations to fluster
And pendulate one's mood.

we are selcouth flower petals on plants that never considered their pots would be moved from their infinitesimal places on the windowsill
when the leaves brushed, a strange ebullience of euphoria erupted in misshapen fireworks displays
the radiance was blinding, but provided a pain that oddly pleasurable
vines amalgamate and coalesce still, twining together and combining with strangled whispers
amatory acts and emotions permeate the petrichor of distance, and the indefatigable thoughts continue strongly

My thoughts are merely a tangle of non-conformant
chemicals in an ultra-responsive setting;
echoes of scarcely delayed feelings,
millimetrically placed and ready to be felt;
remnants of cromagnon desires,
keeping me occupied, unassuming and tame,
while life rolls on silently, reflexively and impressively,
with all its humiliating nerve.

Rumination is for cows, guppies, and humans alike,
and saffrons, sapphires and the snow all reason in their own way,
no less conscious than our total unconsciousness.
Like a rock or plant, man is authoritatively ignorant of his ignorance,
and in his metaphysical realism lives and loves and dies,
without a clue that he never lived, never loved and was perpetually dead.
Thought’s true thought is to block awareness
by darkening the place where true awareness lies.

We think therefore we think:
to god (I mean exact-Nature) no other valid reason exists.
We conveniently overrate rationality
in self-serving cycles of chronic urgency and folly,
leaving us continually stuck to our cyclic fate.
Life is Nature’s grunt or roar
(whatever and the same)
all just a sound, faint or not.

We are unsubstantial and chimerical animals by excellence,
and in the circle inside the box we live in, our fancy appears really real.  
As a feeling awaits its chemical fate, in the millimetric second that lingers,
whole worlds are imagined, and our universe and all is perceived:
violence, joy, depression, hope, and unbearable pain are unleashed,
cities are wanted, planned and assembled,
while man, impeccably and in turns, plays god, king and beggar,
and true lives, true loves and true deities are born.

As man progresses (i.e. transgresses his own nature)
and as he overcomes thought, word and feeling,
he ceases to be restrictively alive: he is released, he is now free.
Thought stands alongside feeling,
without communication nor vibration,
and gradually and painfully amalgamate into a new corrosive mix,
directly eating into spirit, flesh, and understanding,
until our wholeness wholly disintegrates.  

The world as we know it folds upon itself,  layer by layer,
in an inner spectacle of perfect annihilation and renewal.
The chasm separating man from himself contracts
(eventually to nil)
and man plunges from the edge of this last plank (4).
As he falls, in mid-flight,
the ultimate metamorphosis occurs,
and an übermensch is born.

The blessings of the water,
The drums of thunder,
The lucidity of the light,
Which emanates when the clouds amalgamate,
What a flinging fusion!
Nature is a fusion of life,
I breathe from the cloud,
Cloud is the confluence of air,
The consummation of air and water raptures rain,
There is a labyrinth in the life which always have a longing to either include or dissolve into one another,
In the midst of foggy lights of the day and night,
and the reverent glance of the nature,
The droplet of ellipsoid life escapades to the earth,
it blesses the every life of the planet apart from who evades it,
I didn't evade because I want her blessings,
So then did the tiny drops of dew get struck in my intricate strands of hair,
My clothes get drenched subsequently did my body,visage and eyes...
The content in the eyes is obliterated and now I see the intricate nature as it is,
The spatter of sky spluttering on the roving air and the life-strewn land....
Beauty is the creation,
Blithe and beatific are we,
and I am the man meandering on the idyllic rustic mountains in the
bucolic bliss....