Went North for some hills and Mountains,
big in size, huge and tall,
left behind was my house,
Inside which, used to feel disconnected from all.
Don’t know if it was a wish,
or whether it was a dream since childhood,
to make the dried leaves swish,
and have a home in the woods.
Woods, a place to achieve solitude,
and compose a melodious prelude,
A friend away from urbanhood,
That mountain, my friend in the woods.
No it’s not a madness,
to strike a conversation,
it is amenable and it is happiness,
a story, a revelation.
So was the satisfaction of seeing the nature,
Better than being a bust,
no loathe, but only peace,
of bottling out that wanderlust.
“Interesting story!” said the Mountain,
“So, you talk?”
“Only with ones who can hear!” It smirked,
“Oh, that smirk.” bewildered.
“Chuck, how about a walk?”
“So, why only with the ones who can hear?”
Pitiful it was, “The others have polluted me beyond what I can bear.”
“Then tell them and make them hear.”
“They can’t. All they know is to leave behind the tar.”
“Then tell me, let me start.
And set an example apart.”
It said “To admire me, don’t bustle,
Walk with me, witness the rustle.
You know, it is bitter,
to be all covered in litter”
“And what do I get?” I asked.
“If you do as I asked?”
“Well, It will be everlasting”. It continued
“Friendship in our kind of hues.”
“So, what happens when I come here next time?”
It said “Nothing, you walk and there won’t be a car.
And I’ll be the one starting the conversation
Ah! There you are!”