Gray mists 
Enveloping green hills;
Hills that roll like the tide.
Ancient voices that rise 
From an ancient land, 
Calling forth to a free spirit, 
Free to ride on the 
Coattails of the wind, 
Like a dove soaring
Above ancient stone.
I too, shall answer this call.
My voice will rise like the ancients, 
Free like the dove, 
Born again like the phoenix.
Soaring above the land, 
The green land that is 
Mother nature's pride and joy.
And it shall be mine, also. 

Christina Woog 6/15/97