The softness below my feet,
Those fresh wet straws,
One’s that sneak from the bed of soil,
A mysticism that smells so divine
With hidden floral facades,
That go unnoticed by the embarkment,
Those that are certainly unaccomplished as they overlooked its depth.
Those straws that tickle,
Rendering calmness beyond measures.
Tiny is their being,
Exalted is its doing.
Green shaded sheet,
Covering patchy land we hail,
Passes its sweetness in every breath we inhale.