of all hills that foster what should not grow,

there is one that bends to listen to the dark,

its soil a tongue of whispers, soft and low,

tasting the rot before it leaves its mark.



another stands so tall it scrapes the moon,

it peaks like fingers pointing at the sun.

it feeds the crows the bones of afternoon,

and laughs when seeds are buried.



a third just sighs and lets the vines take hold,

their tendrils stitching wounds it can’t erase.

it knows the weight of stories left untold,

the way the earth remembers every trace.



oh, hills of hunger, hills of hidden teeth,

you cradle what the world would rather kill.

but in your roots, the stubborn green takes breath;

and what should not grow always grows still.