These hills are filled with mines And they are majestic, mine, well, Soon they will be mine and not the bank’s. And their covering of trees isn’t just about the breeze, it’s Also rife with fruit and nut and meat. So many reservoirs of ice are much more than being nice, they touch Upon a need that’s pressing, flowing clear. For the economy is such that there’s Never quite enough, nowhere’s Certainly not more than what we’ve found here. And we’ll fish on wine and niceties And we’ll fast on streams below the trees We’ll supine and whine and save us please From these completely new complexities That break out when you’re not starving.Posting some old poems here as part of a new plan to write something every day. Yes, every day. We’ll see if that’s actually possible.
