Continued from Peace
Whose hills these are I think I know
He watches atop the highest though
He won’t mind me stopping here
To watch his peaks laden with snow
My simple cabbie must think it queer
To stop without a dhaba near
Between the valley the flowing river
The coldest evening of the year
He gives the car’s horn a press
To ask if there is some gaffe
The only other sound that sweeps
Of flowing water and rustling leaves
The hills are massive, white and steep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep
