Of Mountains

O misery of mountains, thou art mine,

no matter at what detrimental cost

to my mere sanity, a thing long tried,

wracked mercilessly by the winds of loss,

whose scathing quality shall all things know,

come sovereignty, oblivion, or both:

we tread the Pathway bordered on all sides

by total desolation, or the Sky.

None know which cometh, save the well-aligned,

who see, in glimpses, far beyond their eyes,

the rising fortress of Eternity

looming in darkness, effortless and free.

October

Vancouver

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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2018

atazargarof@gmail.com

BC, Canada