I can hear the wind calling out to me,
its song a symphony of wonders,
that pull at my heartstrings
until their as tight as violin's,
drawing me closer to you,
closer to home.
Across the sea,
through the storm,
over the mountains,
and into the valley,
until I can see our white picket fence,
against the sprawling background of lush rolling hills
that are as abundant as the clouds in the sky,
our own little castle in the clouds.
Where we work the land
until our fingers are caked in fertile soil,
and baskets are filled with produce form our labors,
and our lungs are filled with fresh air,
and the sent of wild flowers from the fields permanents the land,
and the sun has finally set over our little kingdom,
dying it a hue as bright as gold,
because that is what this land is worth to us.
It is worth more than all the diamonds you can rip from the Earth,
more than all the gold discovered in ancient civilizations,
more than all the money billionaires can accumulate,
because this land is a part of us, and it always will be.
For when we grown old,
and our backs bend from age,
and our skin sags from our now frail bodies,
and we have children of our own,
We only hope that they find the same worth
and fulfillment we did.
Even when we die,
buried among the wildflowers,
in the same fields we worked
all those years ago,
we will still dream
of our castle in the clouds.