WANDERING SLAVES OF THE HILL

Distant squeals up in the hilly meadows.
 Loudness rectified by old green graves.
 Tall yellow leaves upon fading shadows,
 Call upon the other wandering slaves.

 The wind has been lurking quietly around,
 Waiting for replies from my friends.
 But my breathing makes the only sound,
 Apart from the owl making amends.

 The huge, grey rock shows a wide crack,
 Where the coloured spider starts a home.
 Maybe they know of the forgotten track
 Which has led me into this dome.

 A quick glance at the horizon far away,
 To gather a few reasons to save.
 There is no horizon. And I shall stay.
 I shall answer for the wandering slaves.