Born inside the mountain hue

where the rivers flow swift and the sky is blue

cheeks as rosy as leaves that leave

sweet, and slow, the flower grew.

And when sun sang, its feeble rays

she held in her eyes and stole the haze

to the fire warm and the sheep hair soft

she gifted away her childhood days.

***

Inside the city sleeps in pain

as grandma watches in disdain

Her roots away- so many a mile

what is but valued, oh what is but vain!

For at the Eastern hills she stares

and awaits the fragrance the wind brings here

though her skin is wrinkled, her hair now fair,

she still belongs to the mountain air,

unclaimable,

but to the mountain air.