Hills

In the tranquillity of the pristine Nature, The human-soul slips softly into its core: Searching for itself...searching for God. Tranquillity drifting into melancholy; Drifting into retrospection, and introspection, And subtly, harmonising itself with its Source: Amalgamating in colours of blue, white, beige, And patches of green on the sea-shore; In the humid clime, and the sea-breeze of salt and oleander. The hills in grey and green are silent, but present, Indifferent, but observing; constant, but ever changing In a fraction of second, as the mental thought; As the sun transient towards twilight, Changing imperceptibly with the pendulation of time, Beneath the contrasts of shadows and lights; Beneath the ever-changing spumous clouds, And the disposition of the beholder, That changes the hills themselves: Every day beholding the pink-golden globe, Vanishing into an immensity of fluid indigo, At night, they rest in somnolence, like massive creatures Clothed in night-gowns of flickering golden lights, Spread upon the bed of sky Of argent asterisks and moonlight. As the line of the horizon blends into the darkness, The human-soul whispers a prayer to Deities unseen: A prayer of gratification, which echoes upon the sea, And mingles with the church's chime Resounding up the hills...