Natural

People talk of great big cities
They sing of concrete jungles
But my home is where the trees grow old,
Where the sun kisses the moon goodbye
And the stars tattoo the never ending sky

My home is where the waves come climbing into shore
And then retreat as if they aren't ready for whatever lies ahead
Where the moss covered rocks act as a cradle for the dreamers
And the waterfalls act as an escape for the gypsies

My home is where the dying leaves bring beauty to the world
And bare branches signal blankets of snow to fall
Where the hell of the world is hidden in the purest, white
And then comes back out only to be replaced by blooms

So sing about your concrete jungles
And I'll write about my Heaven on Earth