Away in a land where rain does not pitter-patter,

there is a treasured dearth of woes,

there is a soothing lack of foes,

for all the world's grievances simply do not matter.

The sun rises steadily every quiet morn';

it warms the winding streets of clay,

their reddish-brown paving the way

through fields of grass hosting dew and spider webs untorn.

Musical waterfalls splash, sending droplets afly;

watery beads land in the pond,

creating a song heard beyond

by the traveling zephyrs, rolling through the blue sky.

The clouds follow their course without any other care—

forever gliding, their pace slow,

shading the solitude below;

there is no turmoil and strife because people are rare.