She won't climb down from that hill.
She has nostalgia stuck in her throat.
It's left her voice rather hoarse.
She won't climb down from that hill.

Forced rhyming cannot dance.
It only struts, like a bandit in the night.
It steals all the important things:
It's in the words!

She made a home on that hill.
Sadistic how she could only think
of her own.
ALL!
A much needed detachment from the world;
she's tired.

The grass will eventually die.
Show me what doesn't.
I'll show you Adam and Eve,
post Sin.

She won't come down from that hill.
Not no more.
She not needed come down from that hill.
She's her own will.
She's her own hill.
Free!