Mountains reach
towards the sky,
stars above
and ashes below.
Mistakes pave
the alleyways,
like rocks discarded
in a landslide.
Sometimes,
staring up
at the sky,
one’s eyes pick up
the dust cloud
of the galaxy,
and sometimes,
they drop down wearily
to trace the curvaceous line
of the avalanche.
Memories rest
in broken piles.
Difficult to traverse
the wreckage.
Buried in the
scree and talus,
pulverized identity.
The old, white peaks
still gaze at the stars,
all of our folklore
claims they know the secret
of the forgotten world.
The burial,
an abject ceremony.
Watch the next turning
of the Great Serpent
from the same little
rocky mountain valley.
Ignore the sounds
of War and Famine
as their horse’s hooves
beat the sky,
chasing their brethren.
Death comes next
and the Great Hunt
will ask us all
to join their party.
This was all written
in the dust
at the foot of the mountain.
Days go on,
and nights fall,
until we build a fire
and lay low,
seeking our place
between the dust here
and the dust
way up there.
HG – 2022
