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.