There's no perfect arrangement of words for the hills, it has it's own dialect, own punctuation,
that is quite different to access, some say they speak less,
they break and rebuild again, but sometimes I connect with their low voice, very low,
too earthy, even if you try to listen,
you'd find a solemnity, they speak very less, the land of the silence almost,
the land of monks, monks don't speak out how they came in the hills, why they chose hills,
I know the hills speak less, and they like less speaking companion.
Sometimes, I agree there are truly many scripts and dialects of the hills,
in their each folds, they've their different tones and tongues,
sometimes I feel their stumbling,
ups and downs of their ribcage under the starless sky,
they whisper, weep, I feel their pulses,
their either way, even in the rare moment like dawn,
I stand in front of them, I get towards or, stand by the point,
to listen their low sounds,
winds sometimes distract them, whatever it is,
in this listening and low speaking,
I try to read them, their low voice, their less speaking dialects,
I can't put their language into words,
you should learn to know why they speak less!
My reciprocal approach towards them is a pleasure,
when you love something or someone, you always want to read them with your intellect,
I like to torn apart my own script, to disappear myself
so that I can work on their script that's written in their diaphragm ,
with my own dialect, I speak in their language, with punctuation ,
you know, though they speak less, they don't use full stop that attracts me much,
I accept it with my utter interest, with arguments and acceptance,
sometimes I get nothing but silence, sometimes I find so many words amidst their silence,
stories that are not known,
briefs and joyous songs, that are still unheard!
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