|
This lake; these lands I stand upon, |
|
Have and age - an epoch that can't be known. |
|
They bear ancient names; |
|
The only remnants of those here before. |
|
I like to think that the ravens who come, |
|
Bear their wayward souls back to this land they called home. |
|
But likely these are only ravens, |
|
And nothing more. |
|
I like to think that every raindrop that falls here, |
|
Are their tears returning home - that they may weep no more. |
|
But likely they are only raindrops, |
|
And nothing more. |
|
I like to think after I yield forth my last breath, |
|
That my spirit will join those ancient ones, |
|
In song to our beloved mountains. |
|
But likely that day, |
|
We shall all be dust, |
|
And nothing more. |
