The hills always called her to wander,
The brown, the green, the yellow always tempted her to get lost,
The hues like mosaic pretended to be a mirror of her insides,
Rays of light reflecting from the scattered stones made her eyes sparkle with happiness...

In the hidden trails, she sought the clues of unexplored horizons,
The little crawlers and shrubs gave her company,
And the dried leaves rolling with the wind in the woods became the travel music she loved...

The rough grass blades sometimes gave her cuts, and little droplets of blood oozed out
like dewdrops on fallen leaves,
She revisited those scars when she missed the hills...

The hills had the language of silence and conversed with her in their own secret language,
the rough edges, the uneven paths, the uncertainty, the thrill,
Her heart thumped a decibel higher, the hairs on the back of her neck sang a little louder,
the hills were her calling and they always called her to wander... 


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