I know a place with perfect views
(great snowy peaks above green hills) ,
where deer run wild and streams are clear,
the way they should be everywhere.
The paths are steep to reach that place,
so hunters rarely go there.
It's sheltered from the human race -
a privilege few places share.
No roads, no cars, no gates, no signs,
it's hardly touched by man's rough hands,
and hawks and eagles grace the skies,
the way they should do everywhere.
The turf is soft and green and moist.
The rocks are smooth and white and clean.
That place is just as fine today
as our whole world may once have been.
It's a patch of unspoilt nature left
from what was once a balanced Earth,
before men spread and spread and spread,
the way we're doing everywhere.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem