My country is beautiful, and you probably won’t believe me
if I tell you, which is good. My country
winds and raises, sneaks beneath places to the effect. My country is landslides on cue and delayed
and belabored public works.
My country shapes me and makes me, and feeds my dreams and
constrains the ones I’ll be able to taste. Lightly, attentively, mouthing you,
invitation eternal to eternity.
My country seeks itself and sometimes you’ll even read about
it. My country is corruption and
redemption, with little in between. My
country in weekly mornings, breathing and repressing mourning’s, teaching and
learning evolution and perhaps, stumbling upon solutions.
Country by bus
Your country IS beautiful. Heaven on Earth. You don't have to tell me twice!
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