Fire licked my mountain's
molten lambent seams,
spinning unvalued tokens
to his chuckling streams.
Cloud seduced his tall peak,
pale dawn blew a kiss,
scattering grey ghost petals,
promises of bliss.
Snow softened his ridges
through long, frozen days;
thawed, he could not follow
down the waterways.
He may crave for burning
lava in his veins
and long to rock the river
down on the plains.
Do not waste your pity.
He lives a billion years,
indifferent to any
animistic tears.

by Joan Teale

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