Paradise

The mountains high,
the skies so blue,
And all the sights
so fresh and new
No shortage of things
to see and do.
But paradise,
it passes too.

The mountain air,
the tropical sun.
Passerby:
a morning run.
A misty shower
that angels send.
But paradise,
it also ends.

The sun retires
to starry skies.
A different city
comes alive.
It seems an ideal
place to lie.
But paradise
won't always thrive.

The people bright,
the faces new,
some foreigners
in white and blue.
Sharing about
what's false what's True.
And paradise
it needs this too.

White clouds yield
to Bodhi sun.
Passerby:
a morning run.
The sounds of street
they pulse and thrive
as quiet drummers
come alive.

Seeking sideways.
Spinning 'round.
Climbing up
and falling down.
Looking,
it cannot be found.
And paradise
is more profound.

The mountains high,
the city streets.
A little drummer
and silent beats.
A change of heart
in tranquil time.
And paradise
cannot be mine.

A plane departs
to foreign land.
Where is conductor
of this band?
Can the drummers
beat in time?
Paradise,
won't you be mine?

The mountains high,
the skies so blue.
And none of it
compares to you.
Who discerns
what's false what's True.
And paradise,
it needs this too.