The palm trees move to gentle breeze
The burbling of the brook is bliss
and all around-tranquility.
In the city merciless
It’s probably a hundred degrees
the buses and the trains don’t cease
and people move like clockwork.
Here in the nipa forest
The rain drops round the huts
Neither I nor grazing creatures
care if we’re wet or not.
In the city full of fret
Sudden showers rage,
drenching the miserable
like rodents in a cage,
and here time seems eternal
like a slow heartbeat
as close a place to heaven
as any place could be,
And yet
the city grey and cold
is where I long to be
for one of life’s most dearest
lives in the heart of it.
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