The mountains keep their secrets well—
in their silence, they bear the grief of stone,
the centuries pressed into stillness,
each stratum a tale of what once was
and what shall ever be.
One looks upon them and thinks,
they have never known what it is to fall.
But does one not hear them groan
beneath the weight of themselves,
the way they shift in the night
like old men turning in their slumber?

Each crack in the rock does whisper
of pressures unseen, tectonics
of ancient sorrows long since stilled.
In this, they are alike to us:
holding fast to the unspoken,
wearing their jagged edges
as though they have no need of gentleness.
But hark—does one hear it?

The way the wind grazes their faces,
how even the stone does yield to that
which is so soft it has no name.

We come to them burdened,
bearing the weight of days
like a sack of heavy stones,
each one a moment believed
to be the end of something vital.

We hold them close, believing
they are all we have—
these small griefs that anchor us
to the ground we tread upon.

But the mountains know
what we have not yet learned—
that every stone shall one day
become dust,
every peak worn smooth
by the selfsame wind
that now does caress the face.
We are not less for this,
nor are we more.

We are but the shape
life has taken to know itself,
to feel, in this brief span,
the vastness of what it means
to be.

Consider this:
the stars, too, shall perish,
and yet their light does wander
the corridors of space,
filling the night long after
they have burned themselves out.
We are no different.
What we are now, in this moment
of small sorrow, shall pass.

It is not the end,
but a whisper in the vastness

of what we are yet to become.
So let the mountains speak to us.

Let them tell how even they
must break and bow to time,
how their strength lies not in
holding firm, but in the slow
unfolding of their edges
to the universe's touch.

We are not small,
nor are we infinite.

We are the echo
of all that has ever been
and all that shall ever be.

Listen, and one shall hear
how the mountains weep
not because they are broken,
but because they are becoming.

                                                  And so are we.

Today I saw brown mountain peaks touching the sky and what a grand sight it was,
As I was humbled by the silence of greatness that doesn't need to shout.
As I was mystified by the rolling valleys beneath.
The mountains, so eerily vast and huge made me feel nervous about my silly human apprehensions.
Time has tested the fate of these mountains, their  peaks still don't bend to anyone.
An eagle flew between these great walls, as if taking a casual evening stroll.
I wonder if the bird admires the beauty in the stillness of these earthly structures.
I wish I could be the eagle, flying as high as the top of the hills, as if conversing and chatting with them.
The mountains are obviously not made of smooth rocks and unmarked skin,
Their surface and body have stories to tell.
If you notice, there are rocks on the mountain chest making a pattern just like ocean waves, creating a painting upon a painting of God.
The limestone that flows so easily on the back of the mountain, like beautiful hair let down.
And the curves on top, the bends on its peak,
The mountain is not a triangle.
It's a woman sleeping peacefully,
Do not disturb her,
For she is She is mother Nature...
She embodies the mountain spirit and has great power.
Do not disturb her,
For she is our mother Earth.
Soon, light gets stolen from the blue skies
As stars come to their job shift, it's now their time to shine.
When the moon rises behind the mountain peaks, the cosmic body feels smaller than the hills.
It becomes the cherry on top of the cake,
It becomes the eye of the mountain.
As the hills breathe and rest,
The soil beneath  ever shifting and changing.
The mountains have been crafted over a thousand of years through storms and rain and dust and water.
A thousand years after I die, the mountains will still be there.
Brown peaks touching the sky,
Undefeated and unconquered.
And I will be the eagle flying between the mountain peaks.

Enchanted with prayer, mountain halls
Bejeweled by its people.
As light unveils their rocky spires,
Breathes in the dawn,
Combining force
Of two opposing powers—
Resilient mind and stone.
A binding of things equal.
They twist, they torque,
Erupt with fire fueled by brawn.
Solidified in shared desire
To bring a life to form.

i get lost on purpose
    drive into the mountains like
    maybe i’m waiting for a cliff

   like maybe route 44 will go off the grid
    unmap itself
from my neurons and from google both

i brake disgusted
    reminded of the guy who took the hairpin too fast
    and didn’t even make a dent in the ridge
reminded how it looms so large with every rev
    till all i see is rock
   , road
   , and impossibly the flightiest glimpse of

   vanishing point

so distant from the guy who escaped the sky

i pull over next to smoking trucks and their smoking drivers
silhouetted against a valley so vast it may as well be nothing
    a pipedream projected somewhere
    beyond
     some etching from the silurian period
    that i won’t understand (not even when i’m older)

i’m sorry i’m late

i get lost on purpose
    but i still repeat myself:
the second the county signs change color
    i’m shivering at the lookout
    i'm swinging around and glancing nervously at the sun
i'm slamming my brakes at the hairpin
    neither earth nor air nor new
   just home.

sorry i’m late
but i’m here.
    i parked at the end of the driveway
   like always.

Fog and mist rising,
And then disappearing behind the peaks.
Fog and mist rising
From the lake as if
The water itself is burning beneath its lurky surface.
Fog and mist rising and dissolving into the meadows,
Painting the grassland in grey and white.
Fog and mist rising and nestling in the deodars,
Reflecting the icy surface of the water in its vapour.
Fog and mist rises higher and higher than the mountain peaks as if teasing the ***** of the hill.
Fog and mist rising and tainting the hillside until nothing is visible,
Not even the roads in haunted small towns.
Fog and mist rising from nowhere and covering the hills
In blue and grey and white.
Fog and mist rising like an old curse after the rainfall dances.
Fog and mist rising and then disappearing
behind the peaks,
Where there is only the open sky.

I felt the harvest
Though I was in the mountains
The forest was ripe

I’ve felt the chilled shivers
Of the darkened pre-dawn haze
The quiet earth yet trembles
Breathing in a sleepless malaise
I’ve turned to face the mountains
But they always remain to my back
I look to draw in my focus
But I can’t find what it is I lack

I’ve got a friend who has
Words like a drum,
Words like a drum,
Words like a drum.

You’ll feel it pass through you
With a heart-beating thrum,
Raindrops’ pitter patter echo
All she has done.

I’ve got a friend who has
Words that come down,
Heavy like leaden-footed
Giants abound.

She’ll take your breath away
And you’ll feel it in your bones,
It shakes down the mountains
Wherever she goes.

I’ve got a friend whose words
Land like a punch.
Staccato but it always hurts
Far too much.

She fights every battle
Like it’ll make her enough
For words filled with love
While hers are cold to the touch.

A mountain from a range,
Of such everlasting granite.
Carved over ages,
Shook from under footing
Like statues who will
Not wilt or crumble
Only to manifest
Into the space around it
Reminding me that as weak
As I feel, Inside of me is a similar
Persistence that won't be moved
By the capricious whim of man and imbecilic masses who follow.
I will seize your sharp shank and excavators trying to make me into something I am not.
I am a woman with equal rights
And dignity far beyond your pompous attempts to roil this robust range down. Your false statues will crumble when the mirror knocks at your midnight door. Here, look at yourself.