The Mount
Sayandeep Das
Cresting sprawling sloping pines,
Rough rushing falls
Slicing through the open rolling mountains,
Bright blinding twisting lines…
The Mount.
Ancient, dominant, all-wise
It watches with submissive eyes,
Never heeds nature’s cries,
Never falls on human lies.
He has envisioned the past,
and glances the future.
We ourselves have made the wounds,
The mount himself will stitch the suture.
Living, breathing, trees of air,
Slashed down or ravaged bare,
Pleads to the mount,
Who is cruel but fair.
He shakes his head,
He doesn’t care.
The ocean’s breath,
Curses and spits and swears
to any man who ever dares,
to put the devil’s oils, in its lungs.
The last sea song,
it has ever sung,
The desert’s gifts have been prematurely snatched.
An infant seized from a mourning mother,
a terrible pain,
such as no other.
The cautionary tales have already been told,
spread far and wide,
from word of mouth,
North to South.
But being dampened,
Soaked by ignorant fools,
Who see mother nature as their personal tools,
They will be extinguishers of our human race.
The world is dying.
God give us grace.