The Mountain- poem

The steep mountain suffers every storm, every wave. He fights all wrath, all the foaming tide, only to wither after gallant sacrifice. After old age curves the mountain's back, after his white hair bolds, after his tight muscles relax and blend, he finally wrestles a storm too strong, a wave too large. The tide wins.

The vibrant valley suffocates under the ocean's merciless cold. The earth vibrates as the ignorant mass feeds on the small sanctum. The gentle tulip is swept; its corpse, naked of petals, is drowned. The delicate dear is crushed; its lifeless body is left to decay in dark depths. The wise oak is uprooted, harassed, jostled between wave and wave. The startled bird warnings, the fleeing, fuzzy rabbit ears, and the small, round bear eyes are all extinguished. Only the mountain remains.

The ancient guardian stares as his friends are hurt. “What was it all for?” he thinks. The millennia of war, the unfathomable number of waves deflected, the painful friction all but a short-slept dream under the hot gaze of destiny.