when I return to the hills of home
the voice in the wood falls silent
the music of midnight is no more
even the wind ceases its whisper
in a cold sunset
I do not know the seasons
time is colorless
the green of the woodland valley
and the shade of the dimmest brake
have vanished in a dream of waters
dark and wide they reflect stillness
all passion has flown
flight without the sound of wings
the bird is hidden
for now I am a part of the swamp
like the moss beneath the oak
I do not hear the song of the creek
I do not feel the rush of the seasons
time is still water
memory without despair
I descend at last
when I return to the hills of home
I gaze at dusk from the hilltop view
then I will walk just one last time
into the deep embrace of the valley
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem