Tears of the Mountain

 

The mountain stands, a silent girl,

Her heart carved deep in stone and pearl.

She bears the weight of sky and time,

Her quiet form, both grave and prime.

They say the sky cries when it rains—

Its grief like glass upon the panes.

But what of cliffs and rugged plains?

Who hears the mountain's hidden pains?

Look where the waterfalls appear—

They are the mountain shedding tear.

From craggy brow and stony face,

Her sorrow spills with strength and grace.

A wild heart’s cry, a soul’s release,

That finds no solace, finds no peace.

She does not wail, she does not plead,

But lets her rivers rise and bleed.

The mountain stands so tall, so still,

Yet holds a storm it cannot kill.

The rivers born from silent pain

Flow laughing down the wooded plain,

But underneath that joyous stream

Are haunted roots and broken dream.

She remembers careless hands,

That scarred her face and razed her lands.

The falling spray, a mournful mist,

From wounds inflicted, newly kissed.

When sunlight strikes her falling spray,

It turns her grief to light and play.

A golden mask, a glint, a gleam—

Yet pain runs deep beneath the stream.

For even then, her sorrow's wide,

A broken oath she cannot hide.

At twilight’s hush, or dawn's first breath,

She weeps in fog, in quiet death.

No voice, no sob, no trembling sound—

Just water kissing sacred ground.

So when you see the white streams fall,

Remember—even those who’re tall,

And carved in strength and silent grace,

May carry tears upon their face.

For waterfalls are born of pain,

Of forests lost and rivers slain—

Of vows once made, then left to mourn,

A promise broken, newly sworn.