Rains cover   infinite glory
                     in their eyes  I see the gory

blood red axe on my neck

they seem to sing eternity.Rains forever come and go. In the ways they talk I must. Go.
Next year they will come I know washing these hills, as we lie supinely doted, in these hills that are coated with colours, demystifying sounds and odours of living.
   Hills stunted, hills demented, hills whose off spring unknown, give away fashionable truths. I live in their midst.
Their colours, traffic, people come and go. I must.