Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Apr 2023
The cliff feels nothing;
As the avalanche scores its face.
The deity that frees the snow's mooring;
Is surely safe from its rage.
The mountains conceive naught;
The gods cause gales to whistle.
But man knows too much;
And can do too little.
Written by
Tobe
Please log in to view and add comments on poems