High on a hill,
In the day or the night,
He will stand there just watching,
And recalling the sight.
One near yet so far,
But still lost to the view,
Is the one that he visits,
And the one he talks to.
Blossoms open in springtime,
And crumple in fall,
And he talks to the one,
Who sees not at all.
Then he walks far away,
Down the side of the hill,
And the one that he leaves,
Remains quiet and still.
Once again he will visit,
But this time to stay.
Someone else will stand watching,
And then walk away.

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