A mystical land,
Born out of trees, and rock
And cloud.
Crags, split and fissured,
Ancient and wrinkled
Passed by, as the land elevated
To look onto a different world.

It was six-thirty when the rain poured,
Clouds opening, like daffodils in Spring,
And the alpine smell lingered in my mouth.
So fresh, so light, so clean.

Countryside blooming,
The pine trees stood tall and proud,
Only to be taked down in their prime
And used for carpentry.

And I felt naked,
In this land of eternal peace,
No guns, no war, no weapons.
Fragile in a land of hope.
Torn in a land of certainty.

It was the human cost
To this paradise, that caused
Thw downfall of the high.
Alone, but no forgotten,

Was this land, now so far away.