I write the ode to the hills, the only ode they will hear
Rising in bleak and distant glory-they are never near,
The perpetual wind moves slicing the skin of the land
Grain by grain from the body until bare and grey they stand,
Beneath an open heaven they will wait the ages out
Until the sky hurls down stars and the earth's fire-blood flows out,
They are eternal silence; they are a thousand voices
Singing paeans to the void, they offer us no choices
Immutable prayers of the Gods, they exist, that is all
In sadness draped in green mourning as they watch the world's Fall
And await their own, final, end