Of Mountains
- Ata Zargarof
- Oct 16, 2016
- 1 min read
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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