The Valley Below

Thu, 10/03/2013 - 17:18 -- ClaraL

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Will it kill me? I wonder,

gazing up at my mountain,

whose jagged, torn dreams

spill down a gray fountain.

 

Bold stands this mountain,

gorged from the view

while I, toward the sky,

climb into the blue.

 

At night, rain falls silver

from a million white scars;

those jeweled-tears that drip

are the twinkling of stars.

 

My star-dreams shiver

as I reach toward their shimmer,

so fragile they crack

like a shattered glass mirror.

 

In day, while I climb toward the meaning

of Life,

the wind stabs my eyes

with its colorless knife.

 

Bleeding, I turn from my

mountain's cruel guile

and look down below toward

a shaded green isle.

 

Here in the valley

is not barren black stone

nor blinding white sun

nor my hard mountain throne.

 

But miracles! They sooth,

sway, slip with ease

a beauty, soft colored,

that hums in the breeze.

 

From the whispering forest

a deer towards me glides.

To my world-weary soul,

speaks her marble-black eyes:

 

"The mountain forgets

in its powerful scorn

that from this valley

it too was born."

 

The deer leaves me pondering in

the quivers of twilight,

the moon wrinkling clouds

with her sighs from the skylight.

 

My mountain, muses I

breathing deep the green air,

watching dusk soften

the sun's gold prayer.

 

There stands my mountain

where the stars seem to weep

and the valley below is a pool,

rich, and deep.

 

There stands my mountain,

its pride burnt aglow;

But I'd rather be here

In the valley below.

 

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