The Grass is Greener

Whenever I close my eyes, I see the bright lands of Ireland. I feel a longing to be there, to lay in the grass and swim in the sea. I long to walk where my ancestors did and to breath the fresh air.

I wonder what it would have been like to be Irish like my ancestors. What I would have felt walking down the seabank, staring at the crystal waters shining back at me. What I would have experienced seeing great green fields instead of dull grey lots filled with smoke and blood.

I see the smoke from giant machines of profit and think about white clouds lazily flying by a clear sky. I see waters clogged with black poison and dream of a crystal clear sea.

I'm most likely overestimating Ireland and it's many beauties. After all, the grass is always greener somewhere else.