The girl in the fennel fields

Away from the rustle of the city, in faraway lands lies her nostalgia.
She remembers the landscape like the back of her hand,
those thorny bushes, those earthy roads, those clean water lakes.
Every passing moment is a symphony of onomatopoeia.

There is something there which sounds like her calling,
like a scrapbook filled with cutouts of the best adventures.
The air smells like stories and the soil beneath her feet holds her,
like a dad teaching his little one to walk.

Here there are no races to be won, no struggles for survival,
on timelines to meet, no chores to be completed,
no need to take care of anyone, you are taken care of here.
You are groomed, you bloom.

These fields are alive, they have conquered monsters of time,
like Santa Claus on Christmas, they only know to gift smiles.
The girl in the fennel field finds her wonder here,
that sparkle in her eyes, that curiosity on her words, that love in her heart.
Like fireflies on a moonless night, her existence sparkles here in the eclipsed world.

Prayers are said with open eyes here,
mother nature answers her questions without asking,
She is healed. Healed to remember her scars, as trophies won in battles she fought.
Here is where she is wild and free.
These fields are her home, her treasure box of magic that fuels her broom.



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