The earth’s surface of solid crust,
has been uplifted in the form of rust.
The densely foliated trees sway in their rustic dress,
capturing the bleary eyes of a children cresh.
The wind blows, the gale comes, the mountain river chanting a perfect rhyme, that will make people forget ghastly crime,
to have several days of relevant peace, and let insane bloodshed on earth cease.
The wild creepers murmur amongst themselves,
the days freshness, the cologne smell.
The frothy waterfall, the heavenly day,
the obnoxious mountains lined in the way.
Smiling in heavy consternation, the evening owl glared menacingly, quietly devouring freshly laid bird egg, butchering red walls of manly courage.