A mountain

An ancient mountain
massive with beauty,
its feet in the roots of the earth,
little villages on its shoulders,
adorned with necklaces of waterfalls,
carved over eons by glaciers,
not easily but with much sorrow
and loss, much harsh grinding.
You are the mountain.


You are not the mountain;
you are the valley carved out,
made spacious by another’s suffering.


You are nothing so large,
but this little place of loveliness
where sheep graze.


You are the sheep,
the village,
the mist.


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