A man's emptiness cannot be filled
by television, friends, drugs,
dissipation or politics. It haunts him,
year after year, like the heart
of the hills he loves.

Those hills are questions:
How deep are your feelings?
Have you found your God?
A steady wind piles sand on sand
to reach the destined namelessness.

His life hides in the silence
of the hills, the horizon sealed
as a vision of God.
Beauty was made for him;
he is a blood relation.

He grows into his death,
and leaves with his questions intact:
the very act of asking
a kind of answer.