A whispering zephyr,
whisks across
dark green waves, misty clouds, and tree studded plains.
Ridged Brushstrokes meld the cultivated land
with the untamed forest.
The thatched houses turn to a sylvan hideaway, the rural country road strolls past,
going nowhere in a hurry , another peaceful , bucolic brushstroke.
There, people are content with their lot in life,
Not ambitious or deceitful, conniving or greedy.
The simplicity of the country and forest,
their stolid, time-worn wisdoms,
The city with all it’s frills, plots, and fetid corruption cannot compare.
Tilled soil and feral forest
Puzzle piece stone walls and stumbling waterfalls
They are alike as the country to the city, but,
Disregarding each others foreign strangeness,
They live their lives, nestled together, mutually content.
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