Regale us once more With the tales you used to chronicle, When we were but callow And all was new,
Of age old myths Both formidable and sublime,
Of gallant feats That gripped our fledgling minds,
Of a spirited people And their bucolic wisdoms,
From the land in which you grew, From the land in which you pine.
An atavist you’ve always been.
A pastoral dream Swells in your soul, Evoking the spirit Of soil left behind.
A yearning profound Captivates the senses, Flooding your heart With lucid recollections
Of burning days Tending to vine and herd, Of blackest nights Gazing at the heavens.
Cry out for the hills And their ancestral paths. Weep in remembrance Of those so revered.
The mortal hours are waning. Return to her.
Drink from her soundless waters If you truly wish to sing. Ascend her sun-gilded peaks If you truly wish to climb. And when her winds come to reap your earthly vessel, Only then will you truly know you have lived.