Standing on top of the hillside, I look to the valley below

to the grimy, grey concrete jungle, and know, from this place, I must go

I look to the sky then, above me, where polluted clouds block out the sun

as I turn my back to that jungle and, into the wilderness, run

with the shrill voice of the city, ringing so loud in my ears

I seek the peace of the country, to bury my now dead fears

for I was born in the Urban, yet my heart, in the rural, shall die

so I return to my true home,  to live out my days til I die.