The Rolling green hills flow like waves,
Upon the rocky earth.
The grasses die to grow again,
As lush as their first birth.
Mountains rise like tidals
That crash upon the shore.
Waves frozen long with sorrow
like the barren moors.
Wispy hollow winds
whisper to my sullen soul.
Calling it to venture forth,
“come with me” it calls.
Tempests ride upon the crests
of the mountains’ frothing tide.
Swirling, speeding into the skies,
then, like a wave that breaks-it dies.
Silence spreads upon the mountains,
like shadowed clouds at dusk.
Stiffening my swollen heart,
within my trembling crust.
Then, like a phoenix, rising,
From the seething ashes grey,
The winds that had abated
Take my breath away.