Here on a hillside, quiet and serene

I sit and wonder at the places I’ve seen

And none compare to this solitary place

Where life takes on a leisurely pace.

 Up on the hill a prison looms

Telling of heartaches, lies and wounds

But here one is free, as free as the wind

To wander at will, no aim in mind.

 Look, there to the right

What manner defiant pride and might

In the mountain, bleak and black

Reaching high to the clouds. Never comes back.

 And the clouds are dark, shadowing the sun

Mischieviously hiding the brilliance from one

Knowing full well that the wind from the sea

Will blow them away where it wants them to be.

 Then my thoughts wander back to this lonely hill

Where I sit dreaming, dead to the chill;

Dreaming of faraway places and things

Dreaming of life, and all it brings.


Written at Ceuta, Morocco at the outset of a trip to Europe.

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