I stood tall,
the muse of bards,
the magic in myths.
Lovers lingered in my shady groves.
Pilgrims walked my ancient slopes,
carefully quiet
as they passed the hermit’s cave
on their way to my sacred summit.
Together we worshipped the evolving seasons,
the rising and setting sun,
the crystalline stars.
I took the snow and the rain deep into my womb,
brought forth rippling streams,
gently trickled them down
to play with the river at my feet.
All life was here.
Then you came,
once,
then again,
and yet again.
Angry bellowing bulls
trampled back and forth my
crags and crests.
Giant claws hacked and carved,
grooved out my inside.
My screams drowned in the booming abyss.
The hermit’s cave no longer
echoes with the songs of silence.
My toxic tears flood down to meet the choked river.
My pines plundered, my ridges ravaged,
I stand alone.
My lovers flung off my slopes,
I stand alone.
My pilgrims plucked from my bleeding bosom,
I stand alone.
Yet, I am always in you.
In every breath,
in your disease and death,
In your health and your wealth,
in your pleasures, prayers and protests.
Always in you,
in your ravished soul,
in your concrete and your coal.
Honoured,
or massacred,
I am in you.
Sept 19
