The traveller marches on the vale,
Of sights around, some green, some pale.
He travels around, going to town,
From when the sun's up an' till it's down.
And whistles he, the merry songs,
For the rhymin' happines', his heart so longs.
The air is filled with chirps and bliss,
And the rays, of golden kiss.
His ticker sees, the rare light of sun,
The happines' which he hadn't seen since dun.
And yet, everywhere he sees delights,
In a foreign land, the trait for which he fights.
Home is not a festel place,
Where one always espies the happy face.
Life is dreary, full of rue,
Where one doesn't see always the brightest of hue.
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