Tuesday, June 03, 2008
I see that old army of mountains,
Standing guard at the horizon,
Some grown older and taller over the years;
With white heads they stand up looking down at the earth,
Making conversations with the gypsy clouds that wander.
Some clouds rest over their shoulders,
Giving them messages sent by their long lost brothers,
Who dwell in the other distant lands.
Taking down greetings and replies in return,
They roll them up into scrolls of thunderbolts as the peaks’ whisper.
Reading out news from lands far away,
About the distant landscapes
They hovered around while coming this way;
And telling tales that prevail there
Of nations and their battles that looked trivial from up there.
The powerful winds rushed against them
But seldom did they budge or tremble.
Without faltering or even moving a single inch,
Upright they stood, staring straight
Into the swirling ice storm’s eye.
The wind whistled mischievously and at times howled.
Going around them in circles on and on.
Teasing them slyly and striking them cruelly, they circled
With an impression they’ll turnaround and retreat.
But little did they know those sentinels won’t even retort.
For they stood unyielding with their feet set on the ground.
Yet they reached high and the limit was the sky.
Perhaps, they had a silent message to convey,
When you stand firm in faith,
You’ll scale heights and there’s no reason you’d fail.