The Wind Blows From the Mountains

Updated on February 20, 2018
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Ryan Thomas extensively enjoyed writing poetry as a teenager and won an award for it, and still writes intermittently today.

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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. It is a concept which will always fascinate me, and time, that ever-present, that always watching, that so ill-understood creature, is something which will eternally exercise upon me its magnetic charisma.

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.

Original French Text / Texte original français

Je me souviens les montagnes roses
Où les oiseaux jouaient dessus dans le ciel
Et les paysannes travaillaient dans votre ombre rassurant
Le vent y soufflaient dans l’air frais du matin

Je me souviens les montagnes blanches
Dessous le soleil dur qui les y frappaient furieusement
Et vous perdiez votre neige que les rivières peuvent couler
Le vent y soufflaient dans l’air chaud de midi

Je me souviens les montagnes dorés
Dessus-elles les nuages apportaient la pluie aux terres lointaines
Et les cerfs mangeaient tranquillement vos fleurs
Le vent y soufflaient dans l’air calme de l’après-midi

Je me souviens les montagnes gris
Là les hiboux criaient doucement dans le bois
Les lumières villageoises dessous vous commençaient à briller
Le vent y soufflaient dans l’air épuisé du coucher de soleil

Je ne verra jamais les montagnes noirs
Les montagnes sous ni le soleil ni la lune
Mais nous restons encore dans votre ombre inaperçu
Et le vent soufflaient toujours dans l’air froid de la nuit

© 2017 Ryan Thomas

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    • nicenet profile image

      nicey 3 months ago

      I enjoyed your poetry, short with nice imaginary words. I hope to write mine soon. Thanks

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