Floral oils waft;
Through the trees,
Sunlight drips oft;
Psithurisms please.
Beauty is found,
Where marshes
May rot;
The Orchid sees.
A darkened landscape,
Shrouded by canopy;
Like nature's nape,
Shrouded by vanity.
The Orchid sees,
What those cannot;
The humid breeze,
And marshy rot:
Puts it at ease;
Relaxes thought.
