There was a quiet Mountain
way high among the clouds,
where once the thunderbolt and rain
had said their sacred vows.
The land that bore this Mountain
had many times been blessed
by gods from every sacred script
at Nature’s own behest.
In time, there wandered people
who, by Her beauty bound,
decided that they’d never leave
the treasure that they’d found.
The Mountain gladly took them
as children of Her own,
and they lived off the bounteous gifts
that, their way, She had thrown.
They studied all Her seasons
and temperamental scares
until they struck a harmony
between Her life and theirs.
And those years were the happiest
when all the Mountain did
was nurture every earthly being
that in Her shelter hid.
But greed grows into avarice;
it grows, and grows, and grows…
And Her unshielded beauty was,
alas, a thornless rose.
Her children fought each other
to sell Her jewels away
to those who’d pay the highest price
and wondrous lies would say.
And so the Mountain wilted,
Her face no longer green.
Her riches had been pillaged by
those who once crowned Her “Queen”.
Yet, still does roar Her thunder.
We see Her lightning thrive –
the final vestige of Her strength
that keeps Her grace alive.
