Thankful am I, for the beauty, of our future,
It started, in the beauty of the Himalayas,
At an early age, the magical folk tales, conjured,
A realm of icy mountains shrouded in Monsoon clouds.
To be passed on, to posterity, untouched.
Let me fill my heart, with the soulful music, of our ancestors,
Of our centuries old generations, articulating and composing,
A spoken language, of wisdom, and karmic consequences,
The drum, the melody, the freeing of the voice, and the rhythm,
All combine to fill our hearts, with compassion and universal love.
Hear the song of the wind in the hill’s pines, and the patter of rain,
The sun will rise in the East again, and the mountains will shine,
Will our children catch this eastern glow, and dance our joy of existence?
Hear the songbird, just when our music has died,
Look up and seek the stars, and wonder about this life, and our passing?
“It is horrifying that we have to fight our own government to save the environment.” -Ansel Adams, photographer (20 Feb 1902-1984)