At the threshold of the mighty mountain
Held, an old haggard grace of a man,
Upon the nature of his depth
And the why of reasons for breath –
When a young traveler with time’s plan
Asked, “Have you been here often?”
The wizened climber spoke with quiet
Strength, “Only since time ‘came fiat.”
His wasted body bespoke his clear eyes
That held the universe in a small blue
orb
Whilst traversing the very edges of form;
Obeying no physical conform.
Asked the elder, “Can you absorb
That you are here and forget the whys?”
The brash boy replied “Yes, because I am!”
The ancient whispered, “The summit’s lamb
conquers the lion who roars but reasons
not his tries.”
“My words speak of acts - no one denies;
Of conquests and feats to come!”
Declared the youth in firm calm
Assured more so by the lamb’s pleated
cries.
“Yes indeed, intrepid one, with ambitious
eyes,
While she awaits along the steep rise
This mountain has been and will be;
Matters not who staked claim her summit
prize;
No one stays there forever with her -
unless he dies.”
Spoke the man who cared for the mountain’s
face
As he vanished back into his being
And leaving nothing but a trace
Of time to be in.
No comments:
Post a Comment