I miss hills.
Hills,
With crisp drifts;
With spick spirits;
With livid, living
firs, birds, wilds, griffins,
hid in thick mist.
In tip, is rift
stirring with kith-n-kin.
This shifting scrim,
this rill singing still.
Nigh! Right thing is,
I miss hir diggings,
hir kind.
I miss hills!!!
Welfare unto all
Rab Rakha
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Since every thought is a seed, I am looking forward to a delicious harvest.