The Wind Blows From the Mountains
I have always felt an affinity in poetry for cycles and the repetition of time. Humanity, by dearth of his incredible genius, is a creature which has managed to give himself the delusion that he stands separate from such affairs, but the tides and stream of life move hardly in the stolid currents that we imagine for them, but tend to circle and repeat. The universe is greatly larger than humanity and its own capability to pretend its own position in it is of any note, and long after humanity is gone it will still go on living.
This poem I take some pride in because I wrote it originally in French and then translated it back into English. I had actually written it as a national anthem for a national role-play, expressing the intense attachment of the nation therein contained with the mountains which dominated the nation I was using, but this shortly ended and hence I look upon it instead as a personal poem.
The Wind Comes from the Mountains
I remember the pink mountains
Where the birds play above in the sky
And the hunters work in your comforting shadow
The wind blows in the cool air of the morning.
I remember the white mountains
Under the hard sun which strikes them furiously
And you lose your snow so that the rivers may flow
The wind blows in the hot air of midday.
I remember the golden mountains
Above which the clouds bring rain to distant lands
And the deer eat calmly your flowers
The wind blows in the calm air of the afternoon.
I remember the grey mountains
There the owls cry gently in the woods
And village lights below you begin to twinkle
The wind blows in the tired air of sunset.
I will never see the black mountains
The mountains under neither sun nor moon
But we are still there in your unseen shadow
And the wind blows always in the cold air of the night.