At evening, as the fires lit
The hillsides with their gathered glow
And told their stories to the stars,
She ate her bread with curds and figs,
And stared off through the olive groves
And out towards the distant sea:
The salt of land upon her tongue,
The memories of her journeys done.
This land was never hers to taste.
The burning herbs, which spat and danced
And filled the sky with resin smoke,
Would blow as dust before the dawn,
When she would take the northern road,
And leave these hillsides’ burning lights.