RIC S. BASTASA
Hills and Meadows
I like to see hills. Meadows.
Blue skies. Blue birds.
Trees are lining like
This must be the Alps.
White caps on mountains.
A winding river. Pines and cones.
Rabbits and squirrels.
This is the Sound of Music.
A movie in my mind.
You come with your lonely boys and
girls. You are the mother of escapism.
They are the hope of lost fathers
of the wars that man has waged
I like to see hills. But there are none.
I like to hear the sound of music.
But there is none.
I face another darkness.
Tense situations. Another struggle.
No conversations. Heavy with
Perhaps i will light a candle this time.
And inside the flame. I shall see hills again.
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