Beyond the Hills.
Beyond the hills that lay in fog,
in sin and song, in sainted slogs,
the Hidden sit in weary fits,
their songs are sung, but lacking wit,
akin to maddened, barking dogs--
yet softly, under all the slog,
and carried o'er the wintry bog,
a sound alit, and I placed it
beyond the hills.
The softness faded into flogs
that beat the night to raucous hog
screams, raw of throat and ground to slits,
and roaring back to where I sit
to watch them all amass in fog
beyond the hills.
No comments:
Post a Comment