But then I reached the emerald hills;
It had got there first;
Yellowed, withered the grassy hair.
Now the hills are bare.
You come here to admire the view.
What view is there, if not from you?
And the barbed wires! They seize
The tangled, twisted hillside trees,
Softened by that same disease.
The trunks flake
But cannot break;
Trees like hanging men, flailing,
In the wind now wailing.
Like lips in stifled laughter,
The rainclouds rasp and spray.
"So why did you come to the jaded hills?"
"I wish I knew," I say.