There...

There is a brook in the midst of the wood
That wishes to be left alone

There is a salmon going up that brook
Wishing its journ was a swoon

There is a little boy standing by the sea
Who wishes to fish in the deep

There is an old man fishing in the deep
Weathering a storm to come back home

There is a hill, smothered by clouds
Wishing it could melt with the plains

There is a plain, freckled by humanity
Lying prostate and fathoming it's bane

There is a writer whose world is his attic
With only a mind to travel far

There is a pilot flying around the globe
With no time to see where he goes

There is an iota of hope someplace, everytime
It's just that we cannot see

There is joy in present, howsoever petty
It's just that we are too busy.