I can never get enough of the way the wind blows over the mountain side,
And the flicker and flame of autumn leaves all burnished up to die,
The white-wisp-waves of a curling mist that sweeps in from the sea,
Even ice cold rain that lashes down – that is a delight to me.

To hear the rain on the windowpane while you’re snug and warm indoors,
Lost in an enchanting paper world of love and knights and more,
While you glance up at times to see outside the hills beyond the rain,
Smiling as you think to yourself, it will be spring again.

From lonely mountain crag echoes to me the wild’s call,
From the soul of a fire’s dancing flames and its shadows on the wall,
The roaring sound of an angry sea it beckons me once more,
‘Come taste the sea salt spray again; live as you did before.’

But alas! I walk in foreign lands, among diesel and petrol fumes
My mother tongue lies still in my mouth, useless now to use,
My restless mind is dull and numb; my heart it longs to be
Where the horns and blare of a city’s care can no more impact me.

I miss the sound of the breeze that ruffles the flowers’ pretty heads,
I miss the sound of voices I know, I miss my own soft bed!
But as I stay awhile here I find all that’s familiar to me,
Is a treasure I now clearly see should greatly esteemed be.

When I return from foreign lands where pollution chokes the air;
I’ll walk instead of driving now, and I’ll recycle, I swear!
For the beauty of my native land and all other lands I’ve seen,
All the blue-hued summer skies and the fields of green:

I could not live without it; I would die, and so would you;
When all that’s fresh and beautiful and rainwashed bright and new,
Is dead on the ground and buried in trash in a concrete-iron hell,
While we slowly choke on the befouled air that sounds our own death knell.


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