We came to the mountain like men a hundred years ago.
Stone-fed, ridged, black rock facings above, hard skies – empty
but for the sun breaking over the rim, deep clefts, shadowed;
voices murmuring from a past no one would believe:
men and women below these peaks, gold hungry
after worlds below these dark hills where brightness lit metal
among these dank tunnels, iron staked halls;
and, sullen men worked miles and miles, fire-born
under a curse none could throw or share, only keep.
Now time and doom release the sun from its harsh measure,
and men who never believe know earth is always stripped bare
as this rift paradise – shut and locked the hinged gate cracks.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.