A Quiet Backwater

Seduced by native charm.

A golden sunset.
Dew settles like fading thoughts.
Time to sleep once more.

Travelers with off-world experience will love this planet. 

Stable and free enough to support unencumbered observation. Enlightened and funny enough to keep boredom at bay.

The comical small-town politics of tiny nations feeds endless mirth. The people in this fair sunny city are a microcosm of the nation, itself typical of the global community.

Short belligerent leaders strut the world stage, racial hatred and cold belligerence all but printed on maldeveloped foreheads, behind which nefarious notions fester.

Leaders of grander legions are little smarter than their furtively whispering ideologues. Delightful to watch intelligent powerful people beach their unassailable ships of state on shoals of arrant stupidity.

Short life spans and hectic agendas probably to blame, the old chestnut is alive and well on yet another globular domain: "power corrupts, arrogance blinds" (translation lacks elegance of our original).

Dysfunction is the norm. Villages, towns, cities, states, and nations succumb to selfish greedy buffoons. Humility and wisdom are elusive in these overly-competitive paranoid cultures.

Irony is a universal constant of sentience, it seems. For here, too, they speak of "public service" as an oxymoron to gently mock their overseers.

And yet, Kind Guardians, this is indeed a place to grow, even die, in eternal obscurity, intoxicated as by a tropical island or a balmy ale. One might quickly lose the will to leave this serene paradise.

Sublime dusky evenings. Crisp, dew-laden mornings. Untainted wilderness. 

Recumbent beneath a golden orange sun this ancient brown continent sleepily ages, seducing aborigine and alien to its timeless ways.

Should I awaken not knowing you, Dear Fond Masters, I would be a blest and contented native. 

Previous Post Next Post