On top of the hill. There she sat,
Wearing nothing but a cloak of golden hair.
Singing songs, as the wind lay flat.
A lullaby to which nothing else can compare.
The wind crashed on her visage, and the wind crashed softly,
As the young, lively swallows sang along.
She was goddess of a time which one recalls fondly.
A goddess of beauty with sight withdrawn.
Yet she was a sight to see
Her epitaph was that of grace and musicality
The tides of time set her free
For she was no longer worshipped nor appraised by any man.
Her cult left her for a god of gas and steel,
One of her own infant creations.
And now she sat on top of the hill.
Singing her ballad for the ages.
