Leaves wrap the emerald horizon,

water mirrors herself with joy,

stars ignite the night.

Apparently it’s Paradise.


Organic minds caress the soil,

shovel the time

and weed out the sorrow

from Paradise.


Raindrops parachute from the clouds,

humid ubiquity,

opulent feed for the ground.

Apparently it’s Paradise.


Palm-trees shake branches with gum-trees;

the importance of conventions in their fight

for a breath of light

above the dome.


Faceless ants cue for daily affairs.

No emotions flow;

not until they blow.

It’s Paradise.


A whistling snake carols

moral dogmas

but forgets to change her skin.