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.