Where trees touch each other's fingers
Trying to catch sunlight with their bowed arms
I will find my beaten path
Where the grassy ground is humble
Courting the sage of stone and pages worn
Where poets drink the fairy air
Laced, it seems, with tiny dry floating leaves
There is sureness in my step
Where solemn rocks rise above their state
To be the home of potent heirs
Storming castles and building faiths
Or breaking them. They sleep here
when vigilance permits them to
Where gentle rolling hills don 't roll
They merely sit, agog with whimsy youth
Not far from mine, but I can say
I am agog, too, with them rolling hills
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