30,000 feet below,
the rise and fall of lush green landscapes
was slowly replaced with symmetrical patches of predictability.
Where once she stood,
swathed in mist and warm morning sunlight,
stand towers that will perhaps broadcast my elegy.
The wood elf slowly turning into a city hulk.
And my only wish is not to land,
but crash-land into the bosom
of that very viridian valley
plush with the scarlet of rhododendrons.
in whose glory Minivets sang.