The Words I Will Speak

Silent Hills of the Basque Country

Beyond the rolling green hills lay snow-covered peaks,
rounded like the teeth of old wolves.
I bet they aren't many of those around here.
The land is vivacious, and a buzzard soars above.
Maybe there is a dead sheep lying in a field. 
The sky is grey like the silver of a wedding band.
It is quiet, and the air is cold.
It numbs my fingers, the more time I spend
sitting on the porch looking out into the landscape.
Irrissarry is perched upon the second hill from mine.
Small, with it, houses made of plaster,
terracotta tiled roofs, and red shutters.
Swirling Basque crosses are painted sparingly.
The roads twist and turn, coiled like a snake.
Narrow, slick with the never-ending rain.
And dangerous, like a coiled snake.
Farms rest on the sloping hills
nestled like old women is shawls.
There is little to fear here but the quiet.
It is in the foothills of the mountains, away from the cities,
that peace becomes synonymous with silence.
It is where tranquility reigns
with its abnormally pulling attraction.
Tranquility enticing you to abandon life
for it intoxicating reasonableness.