The Glory of A Returned Journey : poetry by kim (2nd go-around for post)

The hills beyond the grassland whispers of things to come, to see and enjoy.

Walking knee deep in the golden thresh, of the sway, of the grass brings to mind the journey one must take to reach the next moment of exhilaration.

The air is stale making the lungs work greater for deeper breaths.

The humidity of the day does not let on that it will reprieve itself from the cloudy sky.

Reaching deep within the confines of this biological, skeletal being, the muscles work to move every joint, every member in a rhythmic cadence.

The quiet crushing of grass underfoot is a reminder that it's an intruder wandering this land of ancestors.

The surroundings are lush and green.

There are vast pockets of water that seem almost frozen with movement.

The air is foreign to this being, this intruder, who continues on its way to the next new moment.

There seems to be a noisy quietness that overwhelms the grassland, as it supports the hills from below.

The grassland teems with a great amount of life, wild, free, and unpretentious to its friends the hills.

The hills themselves seem to speak of a more quiet air that even dare say seems more sacred, more holy.

As each footing moves forward in direction, the ears are open, the heart is beating quickly, the mind works to recall perhaps a hint of familiarity, and the eyes are simply overwhelmed.

The aroma of this land is pungent, foreign, repulsive, yet welcoming to this intruder.

Just beyond the grassland and these hills bounds a more rambunctious bit of life beyond the horizon of this land.

The whizzing of motor bikes, the smells of fresh dishes, the chatter of a people selling their goods, street-side.

The noise is most overwhelming and constant but speaks of the goings on of a people in perpetual motion.

There are delicacies to be had, fresh from a boiling pot, there are trinkets made by hand, and drinks to be shared with another.

The sites and sounds only begin to subside as the day slowly draws to dusk, but the remnants of the days activities are still fresh in one's mind.

You'd think with all the noise of the township, that it would clearly echo its voice loudly and clearly to the quiet of the grasslands and hills, but neither knows of the other except by way of the traveling beings from one place to the other. Only to speak of such things when the other is not near.

This intruder prefers the quiet of the farmland, while its adventurous side looks forward to another day in the land of the masses. But only to return to the grassy lands where the vast pools of water, that mirror the hills from beyond, as though they were within reach.

This journey has only just begun and whether this has all been in one's head or whether it's footing has actually touched the quiet grassland, there could never be another journey quite like this - of one returning to one's motherland.