The mountain is crying.

While spring's bloom displays its radiance,

and the cattle low in contented peace,

his tears roll,

in rivulets down his granite cheeks.

What ancient tragedy,

overpowering even the emerald glow of soft swaying oaks,

could fuel his timeless sorrow.

How can we ever know,

the meaning of his tears.

Those who know will see, and those who don't will wonder.

Here lie my fey musings of the past three years.

Thank you for reading.