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.