Here it comes,
the summer breeze,
over the mountains
and through the trees,

Down in the valley,
birds take wing,
ascending slowly,
and begin to sing.

This is the tale
of a land once been,
the blessings of nature,
before mans' sin.

There is no song
no grass or trees,
behold mans' glory
in the city of weeds.

What is this land,
this land of not,
where is the land,
we seemingly forgot?