Up on the Hills

I arise and went, but not to Innisfree.

Up on the hills,

I hear the river’s streaming, gushing between rocks.

I hear the crickets sing,

Birds chirping,

Wind’s gushing,

The trees swayed. Leaves stirred.

Goats calling for attention, chicken clucks.

I sense the clearness of air,

The scent of pine trees,

the aroma of afternoon cooking,

the earthiness of barns,

the scent of light sprinkles from the sky,

the dampness of grass.

I see standing still mountains from afar,

Fairytale-like waterfalls and mossy rocks,

Clouds of cumulus making their way from east to west,

the crimson setting sun at the edge of horizon.

I see rattan-weaved wall of houses,

small buildings and shops and things in the town of the valley,

smoke freeing its way from the chimney,

children cheerfully waving,

adolescents by the street strumming guitar, humming local songs.

Old folks emptying their cups of tea, by the paddy fields.

Up on the hills,

Wherever this head turns, whatever this nasal senses and these eyes look,

they see signs of the Creator,

more clearly,

where His creations were left untouched by filthy hands and dirty greed of beings.

"Corruption has appeared throughout the land and sea by [reason of] what the hands of people have earned so He may let them taste part of [the consequence of] what they have done that perhaps they will return [to righteousness]" ar-Rum: 41

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,

I feel them in the deep heart's core.