A Paradisal Stroll

How could beauty be so magnificent,

Yet wrapped in simplicity,

Distant from the colourful grey of edifices,

Distant from all its inhabiting complicity.

Within me was beating a heart of a million dreams,

That I carried from the dull concrete of the rational world,

But there's power in beauty and beauty in power,

And hence was I overpowered.

For how could I not be?

Those magnificent mountains,

That separated the green and mud

From the blue of the swallow's abode,

Stood taller in their infinite might,

Pervaded farther than the finite sight.

Not an ounce of urgency in those beautiful valleys,

The clear lakes, the innocence of the boatman,

No revulsion in the crisp morning air.

None of the duplicity of the so-called good Samaritan,

But the music of the oar churning the melted crystal,

Of the Dal, Indeed so psychedelic for the famished soul to breathtake.

How could the inhabitants of heaven be so

Devoid of pride, the calm aplomb despite strife.

So oblivious to the pseudo-modern profanity

That we call the metro, the cultured way of life.