Mystic Hill

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