I'd rather walk the dusty road,

wipe the grit from my feet,

cough brown sand from my throat,

while zebras gallop in the vast savannah.

 

I'd rather feel the sun on my face,

the wind's wild, untamed embrace,

each footfall a story written,

in a world not yet forgotten.

 

Than

tread the tarmac,

where cars flash past, a game of life and death.

Each one a fleeting glance,

a blur in the bleak landscape

of the unconcerned world of speed.

 

Finally, resting beneath the old oak,

at the end of a long, earned path,

I can say,

"It was all worth it."