I was looking into the hills,
tracing out the sadness in their ancient contours,
as they watch the madness of this chattering world
with silent, hidden eyes.

I was listening to the hills,
straining to hear their silence
over the noises of traffic in the valley,
hoping, if I could,
that it might tell me of their sadness.

I was walking among the hills,
where eagles rise free and soar,
and I lived for a time in no time,
and I thought for a time in no thought,
but only in a shaft of sunlight,
and a slight tremor of air, whispering sadness.

So I lay down among the hills,
praying for them to tell me
how they could live in peace, while I sought conflict,
how they could stay silent, while I heeded only noise,
how they could survive for aeons,
while I die constantly at their feet,
drowning in illusion.

And so, they told me of their sadness.

...............................................................

And if I can ever love again,
I will try to love as the hills have loved me;
I mean by listening in silence,
to offer the occasional foothold,
and the defiance to reach upward,
and truth, if I know it.

But most of all, I would offer their sadness,
which is not our sadness,
but only the aeon-slow unfolding
of one single moment of joy.