The Mountain

She's bored these days.

She taps her fingers and

Her eyes drift around the valley.

Monuments to her hang off

Her slopes like gaudy jewelry.

Unopened and opened gifts piled up

At her feet. All the haggling and dealing

For pieces of her and all the praises written

And spoken of her natural beauty

Don't make her heart race

Like the men who once killed and climbed

Over the corpses just to caress her face.

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