The Atavist's Meridian

Regale us once more
 With the tales you used to chronicle
 When we were but callow
 And all was new
 Of age old myths
 Both formidable and sublime
 Of gallant feats
 That gripped our fledgling minds
 Of a spirited people
 And their bucolic wisdoms
 From the land in which you grew
 From the land in which you pine
 An atavist you've always been
 A pastoral dream
 Swells in your soul
 Evoking the spirit
 Of soil left behind
 A yearning profound
 Captivates the senses
 Flooding your heart
 With lucid recollections
 Of burning days
 Tending to vine and herd
 Of blackest nights
 Gazing at the heavens
 Cry out for the hills
 And their ancestral paths
 Weep in remembrance
 Of those so revered
 The mortal hours are waning
 Return to her
 Drink from her soundless waters
 If you truly wish to sing
 Ascend her sun-gilded peaks
 If you truly wish to climb
 And when her winds come to reap your earthly vessel
 Only then will you truly know you have lived
 Return to her
 An atavist you've always been