The green hill under me, still in all this commotion.
Sirens, cars, people walkng from here and there and back
again. Why? I don't know.
A crow lands on a stray bough, takes off! The grey trees on
my green hill, quiet, still unmoving, and the people moving,
going there and back again, and why? I don't know. I hear
the rumble of their whispers, happy thrillers, gentle
streamers, and a bird just brushed my shoulder, wait is that
someone crying? no no.
The clouds move gently up above and the wind soars through
my ears! In the gentle rhythm of the trees swaying back and
forth and back again, and why? I don't know.
And in the distance, looms a stone of great dimension, grey
and brown, black and yellow. And in it, what a mess of reads
and wirtes, many pillows, foolish whispers. Take a toad it
has now whiskers.
And yet I sit here, snivelling, almost crying, on my green
hill. And why? I don't know.