Sitting on the cushion-like grass
I fix my eyes upon a hill not far distant
Wrapped by the envelope of sparse fog in the dusk
Orange skies turning into maroon
This highland must be a secluded mystic part of the Earth
It is not singular but a range of hills I gaze at
There must be something mysterious about it
A valley, an enchanting one, perhaps the valley of death
There is soothing silence amidst the noisy rust
Broken abrupt by the fleeting murder of crows
Being chased away by the mighty eagle
Remnants of once fleecy clouds, stagnant in the sky
Cold winds ruffle every strand of grass as it sweeps
That one hillside plateau with the rest submerging by it
Turning the roseate contrast of Nature pale
A non-existent shade of every colour lost into oblivion
