Countryside life is a quiet song,
a gentle rhythm the earth hums all day long.
It begins with sunrise touching the fields,
gold spilling softly on waving yields.

Morning smells of wet grass and dew,
and the sky opens wide in shades of blue.
Birds call out like old friends greeting,
and every breeze feels warm and welcoming.

Children run barefoot on dusty lanes,
laughing freely without city chains.
Their pockets full of pebbles and dreams,
their world stitched with rivers and streams.

Old men sit beneath banyan trees,
telling stories that travel on the breeze.
Women hum while grinding grain,
their voices rising like soft summer rain.

Cows wander slowly by the wooden fence,
their bells ringing a tune dense and dense.
Farmers walk with steady steps,
carrying hopes the soil accepts.

The afternoons glow under a slower sun,
time pauses as if the day is just begun.
Shadows stretch lazily across the land,
like a painter drawing lines in sand.

In the evening, smoke curls into the sky
from clay ovens where chapatis lie.
The scent of food fills every home,
and nobody eats their meal alone.

Nights are covered in stars so bright
you can almost touch their silver light.
The moon climbs softly, wide and deep,
and the countryside drifts into gentle sleep.

Countryside life is simple and pure—
a medicine for hearts needing cure.
It teaches peace without a sound,
and shows beauty in all around.

It reminds us that joy is small,
found in nature, love, and the wind’s soft call.
That wealth is not always silver or gold—
sometimes it’s sunsets, stories,
and hands we hold.