Mighty mountains,
I saw its curves and peaks yonder,
White clouds and blue skies surrounded.
Usual voices inside, as I climb to the top,
Iffy paths or dicey end, I shall not stop.

First came the rain, making my feet wet,
Then came the sun, making my brow sweat.
Pain feasting on my body, but I couldn't care less,
There, I crossed a line, that made the trees jealous.

Slippery stones and bottomless slope, flanking.
Clinging mud and flatulent shoes, wringing.
Looking back, a rucksack, reluctant,
Looking ahead, a view, so magnificent.

And my mind must decide quick,
For each step in this trek is a trick.
A clumsy choice could be fatal,
As a life without a tale to retell.

Alas, I reached the snow capped summit,
Oh, the joy you get when you truly commit.
White clouds and blue skies, singing sweet welcome,
Jolly wind, like your pet, dancing as you get home.

Sat by a yellow tent, I surveyed far and wide,
Leaving its nest was a waterfall to my side,
Chasing its petulant river-child running away,
Is when the poet in me awoke to have a say.

Twilight now flirted with day and night,
Sky blushed as it turned orange, bright.
Adios, I am done for the day, said the setting Sun.
'See you on the other side', was Earth's cunning pun.

The river carried mountain's letter to the sea.
The poem rhymed words of passionate love to me.
Fate, they cannot unite; kept apart by an invisible wall.
Faith! the mountain always awaited the next rainfall.

I looked up, now the canvas was painted black,
A full moon and a thousand splendid suns smiled back.
I walked for long, forlorn, mind full of peace.
Mighty mountains, I loved its curves and peaks.

poem by O. S. Toelyn

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