In the benumbed depths of the Arctic,
The ice points sharply out of the rigid ground,
Slicing in half whatever may travel in its path.
The Eskimo’s bundle themselves in layers,
Awaiting the swift snowfall that will fall later on.


Over in the fiery sands of the Sahara,
The animals mope along by foot
Their tongue dry as a cloth,
Craving a small amount of cold water.
Just one drop to satisfy their needs.

Beyond the chilly wind of the tropics,
The trees sway smoothly as if in rhythm,
Fruits are colorful and luxurious,
And the ladies dance around in tiny clothing,
The sun kissing their skin, making it a soft tan.

I open my eyes and take in my surroundings,
I notice the small wooden rocking chair to the left of me,
The sound of rain outside my window,
The odor of cow manure fills up my nostrils,
And I find delight in being stuck in the country.