Terry A Posted March 26 Share Posted March 26 The hills here are round their soft sounds are whispers upon the so long buried in the peaceful slumber of land in winter. The bear sleeps. The deer do not run or flee anymore. The grave digger’s daughter is most calm. The rich the poor are deep underground and rain nor sun nor stars draws forth a hand once gone to the peace of rest in peace. She throws stones into valleys and waits for echoes so sullenly bored of all the dead stories hanging like dried leaves rustling. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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