By Jonathan Gilliam
These mountains stand, so old, so high,
Their peaks still whisper to the sky.
Through mist and pine, through rain and sun,
They tell of all that’s come and gone.
The rivers run, so cold, so deep,
Through hollow dark where secrets keep.
The laurel bends, the red oak sways,
As they have done since ancient days.
The hands that built, the hearts that stayed,
Still linger here in earth and shade.
By fire’s glow, by harvest moon,
Their voices hum a fiddle’s tune.
The wind knows well their work and song,
Their calloused hands, so rough, so strong.
They sowed the land, they forged their way,
And left their stories in the clay.
Oh, those who go, yet long to stay,
Who hear the hills call far away,
Come home, come home, the voices pine,
These mountains made your blood, and mine.
