The flowers grow with the long, tall grass,
The insects fly through the air,
The saplings grow, not knowing how long they'll last,
And the termites die in despair.
The water rushes over the rocks,
The Birds sing their happy song,
The deer prance around the flocks,
And the sun shines all day long.
The crickets in harmony sing,
Without a flat or sharp.
The birds flap their many wing,
Like a hand across a harp.
What does this do for the soul, I ask?
It cleans and simplifies it.
It penatrates in order to bask,
In a world that mostly denies it.