To think is a crime
In such a clime–
The green of the trees
The blue of the sky
Homes scattered
On the hillsides
Smoke rising from a few;
Happy must they be
Who live here
And wander
On these slopes;
Do their hearts beat
Differently from ours
As their senses feast
On such beauty;
The birdsongs
Rustling of leaves
Accompany them
As they trek
And touch the clouds;
The stars shine brighter
The wind is merrier here,
No lack is felt
Nestled in this immensity
Of this undulating
And verdant earth.
Know Thyself 