““Worn Faces Hills about the countryside, Cold and bare, dissatisfied. From the years of deep regret, Laboring, paying on her debt, On through life. Deep the gullies scar her face Where the waters run their race; Once a smooth and sun-lit hill— Now she’s ragged, worn and still— Dead from strife. Aged and worn, a human’s face Where the tears in steady pace Cut the youth to ragged forms As it faces roughest storms Seeking life.””
