The hills, they are so lonely,
The clouds that keep them company.
From far and beyond,
They rule,
Stand alone, stand tall.
From the midsts of  green,
They look,
Peek really,
And lure the lonesome soul.

The river that flows,
Tears that swim,
Sounds that ring,
Of dire weeping.
Through beds of stone,
It seeps,
Sounds the story of that one wanderer.
The wanderer,
Who through the depths of loneliness,
Wanted depart,
Who fought the ways,
And the dismays.

A lonesome road,
That leads to the bed,
A heart that sweeps,
Every wary thought.
And there it goes,
Into the hills it flows,
Awestruck wonder,
Wandering along.

A traveller,
Travelling by,
An ant,
It disappears.

And from far beyond,
You see the light,
A village nearby,
Home.
And there amidst loneliness,
Rests a place,
You can call your own,
Amidst the loneliness,
Lies a friend.

Friends who live and die,
The life and death of a stranger ply,
To the world and me,
Yet they are, amidst the loneliness, my friends.
And there I stand guardian,
Of a tribe unknown,
A warrior,
My father's son.

My tribe,
They sing,
They laugh,
They cry.
They dance,
To the tunes of war.
They hold their knives high,
And sing the songs of fear.
In the lonesome hills,
They remain
A far fledged warrior in all.


But the wind it rustles,
And the memories,
They facade,
Gloom in colour or in sepia.
And the trees,
They hide,
In awe wonder,
The hills of ancient meander.
And the flowers,
They dance,
Listen and hum,
While the leaves sing.
And yet,
The colour,
It fades,
And paired, lonesome they remain.