Among my travels, there was a place
Of beauteous shapes, bountiful greens.
Somewhere near Mongolia's sweet face
Of exquisite hills and ethereal scenes
I breathed as if for the first,
My throat ached with dying thirst.
There I found people, untouched, unfelt
By towers of glass and smoking tubes,
Or squeaking pulleys and conveyor belts,
And marching arms from walking troops.
Just their sighs and the neighs
From their horses at peaceful play.
Home, I felt, should be as such,
No edges of land, just rolling hills
As if each bump was pressed by the touch
Of an artist perfecting his or her skills.
Then painting jade upon canvas
Smoothing over unwanted flaws.
I could name the color of the sky:
Baby blue with dots of fluffy white,
Unlike the city with it's murky sky
Fighting the blackening blight.
Add only a cottage, and I'll stay
To be untouched and simply gay.
