Chamba Wumba

Home is where the hill is
excavated like burrows in the terraces
winding roads shyly snuck away in the greens
clergy of trees subservient to the slope
they swish in harmony, the ventriloquists that they are
talk and hush in the same sentence
like silent whispers that baffle me
they might have seen me coming.
Your climb is futile
there's much of me to conquer still,
they say.
But they don't know that I win either way
when the heart is where beauty is, at every blind turn.