The hills are waiting,
cold and waiting.
The hills are cold and waiting.
Cold and tall and straight
and waiting.
Not for me to climb,
too tall:
so tall and waiting,
high and close and waiting, cold.
Distant waiting;
far and cold,
the hills are shining
smiling perfect teeth:
oh, so far gone in distance.
We are smooth and separate,
smoothly separate.
I do not own the hills.
















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