Short Poem: The Hills

The hills were dark and wide,
and clothed with firs of green.
The mountains, distant, strong,
were ghosts against the sky.
And who beheld it all?
Or who stood in my place?
No moon rose high above,
but darkness was the rule.
So ends another day,
so comes a new defeat,
and with it all a lie.

But soon the truth will be.