Woodberry

Upon a hill, above the fray,

What did you do to be treated this way?

 

Among the quiet, within the trees,

A flapping of wings, a buzzing of bees.

 

Folk long forgotten, names etched in stone;

Descendants scattered, this place not their home.

 

Yet here they lie, forever in sun.

No visits in years, not even a one.

 

This hill still persists in different forms;

The higher the better, according to norms.

 

A cliff, a castle, a penthouse suite,

Those who dwell here don’t fight in the streets.

 

For if you wonder where power lies,

Know only one thing, just look to the skies.

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