The edict was to stand like a mountain, and I asked what was meant.
To break the horizon with insolence? To make your own weather?
To stand as firm as the ground beneath you allows?
What hubris of Man to build cathedrals emulating your heights,
when they should be building their lives to match your majesty.
Aspiring to see from your lofty vistas,
as if your vantage is equivalent to omniscience.
But to toil and sweat and risk and do the work of ascension
leaves most of us kicking the rubble at your base.
Our own bases.
The edict was to stand like a mountain, and I asked to what end.
To breathe cleanly from your perch? To withstand the vertigo of elevation?
To feel the pressure of your gravity? To brace against the winds upon your face?
To both bask and shy from the sun radiating through a thin veil of atmosphere?
To know that your stability is rife with transience?
The edict was to stand like a mountain, and I asked.
And I asked.
And I asked.
Answered only by silence.
And then I stood.
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