Her hair is red
Her skin is fair
Where she lives
There's no lover there.
She misses her mountains
her creeks and her streams.
Her lonliness lasts forever
or so it seems.
She misses her mountains
A place she called home.
A place where her wild heart roamed.
She was a musician,
the best some would say.
Now her violin lays idle,
her hands can no longer play.
She was an artist
very good and true,
now her hands have forgotten what to do.
Her manners are mild and meek,
She sits in her chair as her body grows weak.
She misses her mountains,
A place she called home.
The only place her wild heart roamed.

written by me