The Sound of Silence

What is left is a lonely hill,
Naked and broke out of her mind.
Her colour is lifeless, her beauty is ill.

The land is empty, nothing to till.
No water, no moss, nothing to find.
What is left is a lonely hill.

Her loudest noise is a broken will.
Her merry was wrath that came to unwind.
Her colour is lifeless, her beauty is ill.

Her touch of whist is a monument still-
Abandoned, withered and blind.
What is left is a lonely hill.

No birds, no bats, no music to shrill.
Angst couldn’t even wait behind.
Her colour is lifeless, her beauty is ill.

There’s nothing left for twilight to twill.
This quiet has been so unkind.
What is left is a lonely hill.
Her colour is lifeless, her beauty is ill.

Leonell