I remember the beauty of the land; a country given to a quiet people, I remember the flowing prose of the muddy rivers and the poetry of jungle music is still on my mind. April takes me back to this place where acacia blossoms race like pink lightning through the trees; where white lotus on blue water are dramatically beautiful. I think of the haunting pagodas under the gilded sun and I dream of rice growing in rain-watered fields. The sound of this ancient culture comes to me like an echo from the past. Sometimes I seem to hear a voice saying that here and now, East and West have MET and mingled at last.