Churning the holy land
The torments and turmoil
Creates and sustains the cycle
Rebirth and creation never seems to cease.
The fragrance of soil
Mixed with the dew drops burrowing the brow
Creates a mysterious fume
Even the divine is consumed on it.
The tolls and hardship never fails
Though the myopic vision,
May fell to grasp the subtlety of dewdrops
Ready to be coalesced from the vapor of mist.