Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills. |
| "I'll build my castle upon this rock." She remembered. Scurrying, laboring. Pitter-patter of children. Smoke of burning. Graves littering her base. Rebuilding. New tenants. New slogans. "I'll defend this rock with my life." Always promised ... for millennia. She missed them. |