Ancient and homogeneous,
Less a country, more a tribe,
Protected for centuries
By surrounding seas,
With the greenest hills
And gods in the trees,
Its people crowd together
And adapt, with unease,
Knowing the next earthquake
When it happens, will destroy,
What they build and make,
Yet they do not quit or despair,
And accept the impermanence
As a given, like the sweet air
Of the forests they have known
Since their oldest animist days,
And this spirit of adaptation
Has remained, at the insular core,
Of a holy, perfectionist nation.
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