The beautiful Summer Season 🦋 | Cooking, Art & Gardening 🌿| Slow living vlog🤍
Who made the world? Who made the swan and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who's eating sugar out of my hand, who's moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down,
who's gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her painful arms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open and floats away.
I don't know exactly what prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass,
how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
It's over in a flash and you're on your way. Somebody need her.
It's open for tonight. It's not too late. My mind says yes.
You've been here for quite some time. But my heart tells me it should stay a little while.
Get the end, get the start. One hundred twenty-nine beats per minute from my heart.
Anywhere we go is where I would long to roam that old day.
I'm taking you all though, cause my heart screams, let me carry you home.
Bright lights and colors. Love is for the ones who dare to.
No use in running when all I really want is to make you stay.
My mind says yes. You've been waiting for quite some time.
But my heart tells me it should stay a little while.
Get the end, get the start. One hundred twenty-nine beats per minute from my heart.
Anywhere we go is where I would long to roam that old day.
I'm taking you all though, cause my heart screams, let me carry you home.
We are candles, we are lights. We are believers, we are safe.
With each other, with each other. But are we at the end?
Are we at the end? Or are we at the start?
One hundred twenty-nine beats per minute from my heart.
Anywhere we go is where I would long to roam that old day.
I'm taking you all though, cause my heart screams, let me carry you home.
Reflections of the clouds above. The sound of rain, a lonely pond.
The grass that grows beneath my feet. I close my eyes, the hum of bees.
The flower of lily. All the things I left behind. Save this little place in my mind.
It's too soon. It's too.
Rustling leaves, just like in my childhood dreams.
You're as delicate as a leaf. You don't know what you mean to me.
It's too soon. It's too.
And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days.
Then heaven tries earth if it be in tune.
And over it, softly, a warm air lays.
Whether we look, or whether we listen.
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten.
Every clod feels a stir of light.
An instinct within it that reaches and towers.
And groping blindly above it, a light.
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers.
The flush of life may well be seen.
Drilling back over hills and valleys.
The cowslip startles in meadows green.
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice.
And there's never a leaf, nor a blade, to mean.
To be some happy creature's palace.
The little bird sits at his door in the sun.
A tilt-like blossom among the leaves.
And lets his illumined being overrun.
With the deluge of summer it receives.
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings.
And a heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings.
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest.
In the nice air of nature, which song is the best?