You are beautiful. Truly.

The anti-thesis of my city veins.
With your abundant grasslands and thriving plains.
A million hearts beat inside and around you.
While a million metal beams create my view.
I adore you and the purity of your state.
Unfortunately, my manufactured comforts and conveniences can't relate.

I lay down, waiting for the sound of the TV to lull me at last,
And I always dream
Of giggling at the grass beneath my feet,
Of living in the zero degree cold and the sweltering heat,
Of feeling the wind that dances between towering mountains,
And of sailing down the rivers meandering through hidden glens.

You are beautiful. Truly.

But at the crack of every dawn, I awaken to sunlight filtered by plastic glass,
And I realize that
I will never know the feeling of real grass beneath my feet,
Of the pain of living in zero degree cold and the sweltering heat,
Of the strength of the wind that weathers the towering mountains,
Nor of the rivers rushing through flooded glens.

I only know you through pictures and accounts,
But never through seeing your sights and hearing your sounds.
You are a beautiful and ancient relic,
Preserved in a concrete museum catered to our aesthetic.
And I see your exhibit everyday,
Through my house's cheap, oak window frames.