Thirst : On The Soil of Motherland

For the sky’s vacuous infinite air, thirsty we are of the earth.

To the ground, by gravity.

The body rests in touch with intimate grassy land, senses the rough familiar surface where once the first step ever posed. By every scent of the blossoming flowers, the kingdom of nature flushes the olfactory sensation, showers the soul of all children of the world with the holy fragrance.

On the comfort of gentle leaves, morning mist turns into dripping dews, drops of moisture refreshes every drained weary muscles, in its purity, in its delicacy.

On the soil of motherland, a sanctification for the wings.