The Essence Procedure

At the edge of the furthest mountain, 

Between the valley and the lazy river, 

Beyond the edge of the scented meadow, 

I can see the hues painted by the setting sun.

The world is a canvas to our intuition,

Filled with colours we don't know exists,

The primary, the neutral and classic each having its attraction,

This is where we reside,

Not a canvas but;

Nature's creation.

The wind is seeping in its harmony,

Taking along the cherry blossoms,

They got heartily colours which alleviate the eyes,

Dropping it and giving the river a divine company.

Birds are chirping, singing and drifting home,

Butterflies trying to hide at a place where no wind belongs,

For they are as delicate as a feather,

With their tiny wings smudged with a tint of chrome.

The sun kisses the horizon,

The sky which was so bright and allure,

Now becomes to recede,

For the sun's going which was sky's friend.

As I sit on the grass,

With my legs tucked,

I admire the arduous sun,

It shines as if made of brass.

Finally, the sun takes its leave,

Allowing the stars to show their heave,

The moon which shines so bright and silver,

Receiving its light from the enormous ball of glitter.

At latter, 

For today,

Nothing more can be seen at the edge of the furthest mountain.

Between the valley and the lazy river is only a 

black curtain with a tinge of silver light.

Beyond the edge of the scented meadow,

I can see the glimmer painted by the soaring moon.