By the lofty hills
where the stream frothed;
Laid the rock still,
with the Bird perched upon:
‘Twas the brawling brook underneath,
transcending tranquility far and beyond.
Her journey from the Concrete Jungle,
terminating but at a peaceful juncture:
of scuffling ripples
and babbling bubbles.
With the sylvan glade to the fore,
the solitary shanty to the rear;
Plumaged from its chimney the smoke:
shading the yonder grey;
Far soothing than the poison plummeted
off the factories into the blackened freshet.
‘Twas the water that sputtered
and not the engines,
The wind that blew unhindered,
and not the hawkers.
Walking on the soft wet mud;
leaving prints of existence on the land.
Far more promising than the hard gravelled ground,
soaking up the tinge of Life.
was the Birdie that fluttered
around her land of sanctity.